


Bell's Table

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bad Weather, Family Fluff, Gen, Hobbiton, Hobbits, Hurt/Comfort, Yuletide, food prep, harvest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-01 00:16:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 134,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11474607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: Scenes from life in Hobbiton, from Frodo's arrival to Bilbo's departure.  A look at life in the Shire, based around Bag End and Bagshot Row, featuring both canon and original characters.This is a reworking of a previously published tale.  Some of the chapters remain the same but have switched order, some have been tweaked and some are wholly new.





	1. A Good Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the characters, main events or settings of these stories. They were conceived by the fertile imagination of JRR Tolkien and are now owned by his heirs and executors. I am only playing in his sandpit and hope he will forgive me the liberty.

Bilbo settled on one of the benches by the kitchen table and Bell smiled as she placed one of her best teacups before him, pouring milk and adding the strong tea. Little Samwise pushed the honey across the table and then continued to shell the large mountain of peas before him. 

The master of Bag End watched in amusement as the lad rescued a large fat green caterpillar and walked gravely to the door, laying it down on the grass by the front step. It was a good job Hamfast was not around, for he would have told Samwise to kill it. In his mind, Bilbo could hear him chiding even now.

“I don’t grow vegetables for no caterpillars. I grows ‘em to feed people.”

Sam returned and continued his work and Bell reached out a hand to ruffle his curls as she finished slicing carrots. Bilbo stirred a spoonful of honey into his strong tea, careful not to use too much. He made a mental note to find a reason to send across a jar at some point. Honey was expensive and he knew that the Gamgees rarely used it in tea themselves, keeping it for cooking instead.

Wielding a small, sharp knife . . . it’s blade worn into a concave arc by years of sharpening, Bell did not look up as she spoke.

“So. How is young Master Frodo? It must have been a long trip for him from Buckland . . . him havin’ been so ill an’ all. I hope it don’t cause him to relapse. I’m surprised the doctor let him travel.” Her voice held a note of censure. But then, it always did when she talked of Buckland. Like most people in Hobbiton, she considered the folk who lived beyond the river a bit “touched”. “He should’ve been left tucked up in bed for another week at least after that influenza, if ye ask me.”

The implication of her words was not lost on the bachelor hobbit. “And you think I should have had more sense, Bell?” he asked quietly. He had been dubious, to be sure. But the doctor had offered cautious approval and Frodo had managed, although he had nodded against his uncle’s shoulder for the last two hours of the cart journey and Bilbo had shooed him straight to bed when they arrived. He had left the lad still sleeping soundly this morning.

Bell pursed her lips and started peeling onions. “Beggin’ yer pardon an’ all, Mr Bilbo. But ye’ll not be used to carin’ for young uns.” She looked towards the sink and the sound of splashing.

“Daisy, ye be sure to get all the blood clots out o’ that beast heart. I don’t want to go sticking my hand in to stuff it and coming up all bloody again, like last time.”

Daisy looked contrite. “Ma . . . I’ll do it right, this time. I ain’t never done it before last time. I’ll flush it out good. I promise.”

Bell nodded. “There’s my good lass.” She went on to start dicing onions and Bilbo noticed little Samwise wipe his eyes. Bell followed his gaze. “Why don’t ye move a bit further down the table, Sam? These onions are a mite strong.”

Sam nodded and slid himself and the peas further down the bench. 

Bilbo sipped his tea. “I must admit that I wondered whether it would be safe to move Frodo. But the doctor seemed happy. And when I checked him this morning he had no sign of fever. He just seems tired.” A note of uncertainty crept into his voice. “Do you think he will be alright? Perhaps I should go and check on him again.” He made to rise and little Samwise’s eyes grew wide in alarm, but Bell’s calm voice cut the rising panic.

“Ye sit there an’ finish yer tea. If he didn’t start a fever durin’ the night he’s not goin’ to start one now. He’s young. He’ll bounce back. Youngsters usually do,” she announced sagely.

Daisy brought the cleaned heart to the table and set it in a roasting tin while her mother added the diced onions to the stuffing mix waiting nearby. She looked at Daisy for a moment, assessing. Then she pushed over the basin of sage and onion stuffing. “Here’s another job for ye, lass. Ye can stuff the heart. Make sure ye get it right down inside, mind ye.”

Daisy beamed at being entrusted with this extra responsibility. “Yes, Ma.” She took up a handful of stuffing and forced it down one of the holes widened in the top of the heart . . . her tiny hand disappearing inside as she forced the breadcrumb and suet mix down as far as she could reach.

Bell took up a larger knife and began to chop up some turnip. “Sam, lad. Will ye go to the pantry an’ fetch that little bowl of broth for me?” The turnip was firm and Bell struggled to get the large, razor sharp knife through the orange flesh.

“I put some beef broth aside for Master Frodo last night. It’s got a few vegetables in it but I’ve chopped ‘em extra fine for him. I weren’t sure how he would be feelin’. From the sound of it he’s taken no harm but he might like it anyhow.”

Sam crept carefully across the room from the pantry, a small basin held firmly between both hands. He concentrated on the sloshing liquid, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth and relinquished it to Bilbo in relief, returning to his pile of peas and popping one in his mouth as reward. Bell grinned.

Bilbo inhaled the fragrance of the broth, a very thin layer of fat crazing its surface like ice on a puddle. “I am sure Frodo will love it, Bell. The doctor said they were still having to tempt him to eat and I can think of few things more tempting than your cooking.”

Bell kept one eye on her knife as she glanced up at her guest. “I don’t know about that. Although I’ve learned a few things, bringin’ up this brood. Anyhow, yer a fair cook yerself, Mr Bilbo. The lad won’t starve, that’s for sure. Talkin’ of which . . . I think tis about time ye should be checkin’ on him. Tis an hour since ye came in.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened. “Oh my . . . that long?” He rose, hurriedly. “I should check, shouldn’t I.” His eyes fell to the basin of broth and he lifted it carefully. “He may be looking for his breakfast even now. Dear me. Some Uncle I am.” He hurried to the door and Sam rushed ahead to open it for him. “Thank you, Bell,” he called over his shoulder.

With that, he left, and Sam stood in the doorway, watching him hurry up the hill to the big smial, hoping to catch a glimpse of the new occupant.

“Samwise Gamgee . . . ye come in here and finish yer job. T’aint polite to rubberneck.”

Daisy giggled and her mother glared at her, reaching over to score the flesh of the beast heart that now lay, stuffed and ready for roasting, in the tin.


	2. Broken Wings

Bell dropped the chicken head into a dish, sighing, and Daisy hung her head. 

“I’m sorry, Ma.”

“Never mind . . . can’t be helped now. But next time make sure ye ask the butcher to dress it afore he weighs it. I reckon nothin’ to paying for the weight of a head and feet I’m not goin’ to eat. Bill Bracegirdle saw ye comin’, lass.”

Daisy ducked her head once more and Sam hid a smile as he bent to his slate at the other end of the large scrubbed wooden table. He painstakingly formed the letter ‘A’ with his stub of chalk and checked it against the one flowingly scripted on the small piece of paper on the table at his side. The young lad sighed when he compared them and wished the learning would go faster so that his letters would look as beautiful as Mr Bilbo’s.

Bell took one of the yellow feet in her fingers and slit the skin around the joint, using the sharp knife to cut the sinews before bending the foot back, slicing through the bottom layer of skin and adding the severed foot to the head in the bowl. The second foot followed the first and Daisy rushed to dispose of the evidence.

Deciding that the point had been made, Bell relented when the girl returned. “Tis alright, lass. Everyone makes mistakes. It weren’t yer first and it won’t be yer last. Yer forgiven.” The small sharp bladed knife was run down the skin of the neck from shoulder to end and Bell began to peel back the skin. Finding the joint between the bones at the windpipe she sliced the neck away and placed it in a fresh dish.

Her eldest daughter smiled in relief. “Thank you, Ma.”

“Finish gratin’ that stale bread fer the stuffin’,” Bell instructed, as she turned the bird around and cut around the vent.

Daisy picked up the grater and the remains of the loaf and added crumbs to a growing mound in the basin.

Sam watched in interest as his mother slid her fingers inside the bird and moved them around a bit, then she seemed to grasp something right up at the neck end and began to slowly draw her hand out. With it came all the inner organs of the bird. Curiosity got the better of him and he left his seat to stand at his mother’s elbow. Bell noticed his presence.

“There now, Sam. All that came out of that bird. And most of it we can’t eat.” She fished around in the mound of sweet smelling offal.

“Why not, Ma?” Sam asked curiously, watching as she severed the tiny heart and added it to the neck, sitting in a dish. That bit he recognised from the shape. It was the same shape as the beast heart they sometimes had . . . although it was much, much smaller.

Bell cut away the liver, carefully dissecting and discarding the gall bladder. “Well, a lot of this is used for digestin’ its food so it’s got half eaten stuff in it. Ye don’t want to be eatin’ that. And some of it is very nasty tastin’.” She pointed to the tiny gall bladder she had just discarded. Bell added the gizzard and kidneys to the heap in the bowl and then waited while daisy removed the wooden board to dispose of the rest.

Sam’s mother took up a waiting damp cloth and wiped around inside the now empty cavity. She slipped fingers in either side of the vent and pulled out two pads of fat, which she laid on one side to sit on the bird’s breast when it was put in the oven. 

Daisy returned and began to add warm water to the stuffing mixture, filling the room with the smell of sage and onion. Her mother looked up at the smell.

“I hope you added suet to that mix or it’ll be a stodgy mess.”

“I did, Ma,” Daisy assured her mother hurriedly. She was not about to make any more mistakes today, especially with Sam watching.

Bell caught Sam frowning at the carcass. “What is it, lad?”

“What’s that red mark on the thing on the side?”

His mother looked down in confusion, trying to find the source of his question. Sure enough, on one wing . . . about half way down the last set of bones, was a bruise. Bell rubbed it between her fingers, feeling the grating of broken bone.

“Poor thing had a broken wing. Mayhap that’s why it were killed . . . farmer put it out of its misery.” 

Bell accepted the stuffing bowl from Daisy and began to fill the cavity, after folding the empty skin of the neck over the hole at the other end of the body.

They all jumped at a loud thumping on the door, and for a moment they were too stunned to react. Then Bell ran to open it, wiping her hands on her apron as she went. Whoever it was they were obviously agitated because they banged again before Bell could cover the short distance from the table. She flung open the door to find Master Bilbo leaning, gasping on the doorframe, his face red and covered in sweat.

“Why, whatever is it Mr Bilbo?” asked Bell, reaching out to help him across the threshold. 

Bilbo waved her off, finally finding the breath to speak. “Frodo . . . Frodo fell. Think he’s broken his arm . . . possibly his wrist.” He took another deep breath. “Need one of your lads to . . . fetch doctor . . . if you can spare them.”

Bell blinked. “They’ve all gone off to help Tom Cotton with his harvest. There’s only me and Daisy and Sam. May’s taken Marigold down to watch and Sam’s too young to go runnin’ about the Shire on his own.”

Bilbo sagged against the doorframe. “I had forgotten. I can’t leave the lad. I’ll try further down the row.” He made to leave but Bell stopped him, untying her apron and throwing it onto the corner of the table.

“They’ve all gone to harvest.” With surprising strength she turned Bilbo around. “Ye go fetch the doctor and I’ll go sit with Master Frodo.”

Bilbo sighed with relief and managed a weak smile. “Thank you, Bell. You’re a treasure and Hamfast is lucky to have you.”

Bell blushed and pushed him lightly on the shoulders. “Get on with ye! He knows well enough what he’s got. Now off ye go.”

With one final, relieved smile Bilbo headed off down the path at a trot. Bell turned back to the smial to find her two children still open-mouthed. She stuck her hands on her hips.

“Would ye look at the pair of ye. Faces fit to catch flies.” Two sets of jaws snapped shut and Sam ran up to his mother, brown eyes threatening tears.

“Are they goin’ to kill Master Frodo?”

Bell knelt down and gathered him up. “Gracious no, lad. Whatever makes ye ask that. He’s just broke an arm. He’ll be fine.”

Sam sobbed against her shoulder. “But they killed the chicken. I don’t want them to kill Master Frodo.”

Bell sighed and squeezed him before pushing him away to look into his tearful soft brown eyes. “They only do that with chicken’s, love. The doctor will put a splint on young Master Frodo’s arm to hold it still while it heals, and he’ll be right as rain in a few weeks.” She reached out and brushed away his tears with her fingers, leaning forward to kiss his forehead as the little face cleared. 

“Now . . . ye’ll have to help here while I go and sit with Master Frodo. Think ye can do that?”

Sam pulled himself up to his full height . . . which wasn’t very much . . . even for a hobbit. “Yes, Ma.”

Bell gave him one last squeeze and stood up, looking across the room at Daisy. 

“Finish stuffin’ that bird, then truss it and put it in the oven. Ye’ve seen me do it often enough and I won’t shout if ye don’t get it right this time.” She turned Sam and pushed him back towards the table, still addressing her daughter. “When ye’ve done that ye and Sam start the vegetables. May can help if she comes back in time. Get them on to boil when the bird’s near ready. And don’t give Sam that sharp knife. He’ll manage well enough with one of the others. Then clean out the gizzard and when ye put on the vegetables, put the giblets to simmer for the gravy.”

Daisy blinked, her face filling with panic. “But I ain’t never got a whole meal ready on my own. What if things ain’t ready and the bird is cooked?”

“Then take the bird out and we’ll eat it cold. It won’t come to no harm. Just use a skewer like I showed ye to make sure it’s cooked through.”

Before Daisy could say more, Bell pulled the door shut and hurried off up the path to Bag End.

She found the door open and headed down the hall, trying to remember which of the many ones lining it led to Master Frodo’s room. After a moment it became easy enough to find and Bell just followed the sound of soft sobbing. She found Frodo, lying atop his bed and curled on his side, his left arm cradled gingerly in his right. 

The boy looked up when he heard her steps and sniffed, then turned his head into the pillows to hide his tears. 

“There now, lad. Yer Uncle Bilbo’s gone for the doctor and I’ve come to sit with ye ‘til they get back. We’ve not been introduced. I’m Bell Gamgee from number three.” She settled on the bed and combed her fingers through his thick chestnut curls and he turned huge blue eyes up to her.

His voice was a little shaky but she noted that his manners had been learned, for he gave a formal, “Pleased to meet you, Mistress Gamgee.” Then he swallowed before adding, “Please . . . I’m awfully cold.” And to confirm his statement his body gave a small shudder.

Of course he would be cold. His body had just had a nasty shock. “Ye silly hobbit, Bell Gamgee . . . anyone would think ye’d no young uns of yer own,” she murmured. Rising, she set too making him comfortable and within a few minutes Frodo was tucked up in his bed, supported by a mound of pillows, with his clothes loosened. Bell laid a damp cloth on his brow and slipped a pillow gently beneath his left arm. 

Frodo sighed in relief at the temporary reduction in his pain. The cornflower blue eyes, which had clenched shut as soon as she had moved him, opened once more. “Thank you, Mistress Gamgee.”

“Yer welcome, lad.” Bell settled on the bed once more and used another damp cloth to wipe his tearstained face. “However did ye manage to fall? Did ye trip?”

Frodo made to shake his head and stopped when the cool compress threatened to slip over his eyes. Bell adjusted it. “I fell out of a tree.”

“A tree? Whatever were ye doin’ up a tree?”

His reply was rather sheepish. “Reading.”

Bell fought hard to suppress a smile. “Well now, I’ve found most people use a chair, although I confess I’ve seen ‘em reading on the floor. But up a tree is a new one on me. Is it somethin’ they do down over the river?” 

She would believe just about anything about what they did down there. They were strange folk, those Brandybucks, and Bilbo had done right by the lad, bringing him back up to Hobbiton to live amongst proper folk.

Frodo gave a little laugh, wincing when the consequent movement of his chest and shoulder jostled his arm. “No. It’s just something I do. Usually I don’t have any trouble . . . and I hadn’t climbed high. But the book slipped off my lap and when I reached to catch it I lost my balance.”

“Well, tis a hard lesson to learn and mayhap I’m takin’ a liberty . . . but I can’t help feelin’ it were a warnin’ to ye to stay out of trees. T’ain’t natural for a hobbit.”

Frodo smiled. “You may be right.”

Bell recognised the look in his eyes. She’d seen it in her young ones too often. He’d be back up a tree as soon as the splints came off. Well. It was none of her business.

“Would ye like a sip of water, lad? Ye look a mite feverish.” Although Frodo’s face was ashen beneath his summer tan Bell could see two points of pink colour in his cheeks and his face was bedewed with perspiration.

Frodo looked as though he were going to give a grateful, “Yes please.” Then he looked down at his injured right arm and left wrist and back at Bell. “No thank you. I’m alright.”

Bell sniffed and filled a cup from the jug at Frodo’s bedside. This young Baggins was a stubborn one. “Nonsense. Yer burnin’ up.” She held the cup to his lips. “Pride’s a good thing, in its place but the sick bed’s no place for it.” When Frodo made no move to open his lips she met his gaze squarely. “T’ain’t no shame to accept help when yer poorly. Especially from folk’s that love ye. Love needs room to show itself.”

Now it was Frodo’s turn to be surprised and he opened his mouth obediently, greedily sipping the cool water. Bell simply nodded in approval. He was stubborn but teachable. 

They both looked to the door as the sound of a conversation and the soft slap of footsteps announced the return of Bilbo with the doctor. Frodo’s face filled with relief when he saw his uncle. 

The older gentlehobbit assessed his nephew and turned to Bell. “Bless you, Bell. I don’t know how you managed it but he looks better already.” He turned back to Frodo and smiled, reaching out to pat the lad’s knee.

“I only made him comfortable,” Bell announced, as she rose to give the doctor access to his patient. As she got to the door she turned, searching for those blue eyes. “Now ye mind what I said, Young Master. And I’ll send Sam across with a bite to eat later. I doubt yer uncle will have the time to cook today.”

Frodo smiled. “I will. And thank you.”

Bell nodded in approval and turned back to her own brood.


	3. Tendin' with Taters

The table was full; and a line of bottoms filled the benches on either side. But there were three empty spaces.

Bell stood at the range, stirring a small pan, with Sam watching closely. She fished out the chicken giblets, leaving them on a small plate that Daisy provided. Bell forked up the tiny liver and offered it to a pleasantly surprised Sam, who chewed it delightedly. That titbit was usually reserved for his Da but Sam would have to wait for his dinner until he had run his errand, so Bell knew that her husband would not object on this occasion. There was, after all, no sacrifice greater to a young hobbit than to ask him to delay eating when food was on the table.

Bell left the pan to bubble and, with two large forks, lifted the roasted chicken onto a serving plate, which Daisy laid before her Da, following it with basins of piping hot vegetables. Meanwhile, Bell added the meat juices from the roasting tin to the giblet broth. She handed Sam a cup of white liquid.

“I’ve another job for ye, lad. This is flour and water. I want ye to trickle it very slowly into the gravy as I stir. Do ye think ye can do that?”

Sam swallowed the last of the tiny liver. “Yes Ma.” Behind him he could hear plates being filled and knew that his Da was making sure that there would be one ready for him when he returned from Bag End.

Bell began to stir the broth briskly and Sam trickled the flour paste in very slowly, watching in fascination as the broth thickened and turned a pale toffee colour, the fat from the roast forming sparkling lace curtains on its surface. Her family was firmly convinced that Bell Gamgee made the best gravy in the Shire.

“Well done, lad. Now fetch me that little dish of mashed potato and we’ll pour some of this over it for Master Frodo.” Sam obliged, his mouth watering as he watched the golden liquid being spooned over a little mound of creamy mashed potato. There were those who argued that Bell Gamgee also made the creamiest mashed potatoes in the Shire . . . adding milk, butter and pepper and mashing them until they were smooth as silk. If those arguers all belonged to her own family it mattered little to Bell.

Daisy bustled up with a jug and the rest of the contents of the pan were used to fill it. Bell set the bowl of potato and gravy on a couple of tea towels spread out on the wooden draining board, waiting. Sam covered the bowl with a plate and Bell wrapped it all carefully in the towels to keep it warm.

“Off ye go, then, Sam. Quick as ye can so it stays hot, but don’t go trippin’. One broken arm on the Hill is more than enough.” She ushered Sam out of the door and watched a moment as the lad set off at a quick walk towards Bag End.

She returned to the table as May began to cut up the chicken in little Marigold’s dish. Collecting Sam’s filled plate, she covered it with a bowl and set it atop a pan of boiling water to keep warm. If she knew Sam he would probably wish to get his first look at Bag End’s newest occupant.

Daisy snorted as her mother sat. “Fancy breakin’ an arm. What was he doin’ up a tree, anyway? No sensible hobbit should be climbin’ trees.”

It was her father who answered firmly. “Taint none of your business to ask and taint none of your place to comment on the doin's of your betters, Daisy Gamgee. You remember your place, my girl. The Baggins’ have always done well by this family. ‘Tis the wages Mr Baggins’ pays me that’s put this meal in front of you and don’t you forget it . . . and he pays above the goin’ rate for the job. Young Master Frodo deserves the same respect.”

Daisy offered a properly contrite, “Yes, Da.” 

0o0

Sam rang the bell by the big green door and it was opened within moments by Mister Bilbo Baggins.

“Hello Sam. Is that the potato from your mother?” He made to take it from Sam but the young hobbit relinquished it very reluctantly.

“Could I visit Master Frodo for a bit? . . . I won’t stay too long. I expect he’s not feelin’ very well at the minute.” 

“I’m sure he’d love to see a new face, but won’t your supper be getting cold?”

“It’s alright. Ma said she’d keep it warm for me.”

Bilbo considered for a moment. Sam was much younger than Frodo but he was a quiet and thoughtful lad, much like the younger Baggins. Perhaps he would help to take Frodo’s mind off the pain until Bilbo could make up the tea the doctor had left.

“Very well, Sam. You can take in the tray. He’ll be more likely to eat if you’re there. The doctor says he’ll be feeling right as ninepence by tomorrow but he’s a tad feverish at the moment and it’s making his stomach a bit offish. You may be better at tempting him than I.”

He led the way to the kitchen, where he unwrapped the dish and placed it on a small tray with an equally small bowl of custard. Bilbo inhaled approvingly. “I do believe your mother makes the best gravy I have ever tasted.”

“Yes sir. She does,” affirmed Sam, quite willing to agree the merits of his mother’s cooking.

Bilbo took up the tray and led the way to Frodo’s bedroom where the lad was sitting propped up by several pillows. His right arm was in a sling, made from one of Bilbo’s expensive silk scarves, and Sam could see the hard outline of splints beneath the fabric. The left wrist also sported a light bandage. An open book lay upon the lad’s lap, although when they entered the room his eyes were closed. He opened them when he heard their footsteps.

Pain had turned Frodo’s complexion almost grey and the eyes were clouded but Sam found himself looking into wide eyes the blue of summer skies, set in a fine boned face and framed with curls the colour of roasted chestnuts. He almost imagined that this was one of Mr Bilbo’s elves, and for a moment he was struck dumb. 

Bilbo smiled. “Here we are Frodo, lad. Some nice smooth mashed potato with gravy, courtesy of Mistress Gamgee, and a little custard . . . nothing too heavy on your stomach. And here’s young Sam Gamgee to help you with it.” Bilbo set the tray on his nephew’s lap as Sam stretched up to grab the book.

Frodo looked at the tray listlessly. “I’m not very hungry, really, Uncle.”

“Nonsense lad. The doctor said you couldn’t take the pain medicine on an empty stomach so eat up while I go and get it ready,” Bilbo replied . . . his tone brooking no further argument on the matter. As he left he handed Sam a spoon. “He has trouble managing with his left hand . . . sprained the wrist. You’ll have to feed him.” He left quickly, closing the door firmly behind him.

Sam looked about. There was a chair by the bed but he was too small to be able to reach Frodo’s mouth from there. Ever practical, he shrugged his shoulders and clambered onto the big bed, sinking into the soft feather mattress. He wished his own bed were as soft as this. He would never want to get up again. Frodo winced a little as the movement jostled him.

“Sorry, Mr Frodo.”

“It’s alright, Sam.”

Sam dipped his spoon in the potato and held it to Frodo’s lips. At first he thought the older hobbit was going to refuse but, after a moment, pale lips parted and took the proffered morsel. 

Frodo blinked in surprise. The potato was as smooth as could be; not a lump to be found. And it tasted of butter, with a slight edge of salt. The gravy was smooth too, mildly flavoured with chicken. It slid down his throat with little effort and his tender stomach showed no signs of rejecting it. When Sam offered another spoonful there was no further hesitation.

“I feel such an idiot, having to be fed like a baby,” Frodo confessed between mouthfuls. 

“My Ma says there’s nothin’ to be ashamed of in acceptin’ help when you need it. You can’t help it, and you’ve got to eat,” Sam announced, sagely.

Frodo smiled in spite of his pain. The arm was throbbing, his wrist ached and the combination of that, with a mild fever, was also making his head ache. But Sam was trying hard not to jostle him, now that he had managed to get onto the bed, and he was keeping his voice quiet, as though he knew.

The stomach, which had been complaining only a few minutes ago, was now settling. Perhaps Bilbo had been right and hunger, rather than fever, had caused the discomfort there. He had not eaten since first breakfast and had been in too much pain to bother over much about anything else until the doctor had set his arm.

Sam could stand it no longer. Despite his Da’s words curiosity got the better of him and he could not resist. “Would you mind if I asked a question, Master Frodo?” 

“No Sam. What is it?”

“Why was you climbin’ a tree?”

Frodo suppressed a wince as he chuckled, wondering how many times he would have to answer that question. “It’s a habit I got into when I lived at Brandy Hall. I like to read but the Hall was so busy that I was always getting interrupted. I discovered that if I climbed a tree I could be out of sight and enjoy my book in peace. It’s not a problem here, of course, but old habits die hard.”

Sam nodded. “Will you be stoppin’ climbin’ trees in future, then?”

Frodo thought for a moment. “I don’t know, Sam. I quite like it . . . you can see so much more of the world from the top of a tree and I would so like to explore that world one day. I wonder if that is why Big Folk travel so much . . . because they can see farther than us and want to go and visit the places that they can see.”

His helper absorbed that piece of information and filed it for future reference as he moved on to attack the custard. They were nearly finished when Bilbo returned with two cups.

As he crossed the room Bilbo took in the scene. Sam was settled on the bed, facing Frodo, offering him the last mouthful of custard. Both bowls were empty and Frodo was resting comfortably against his pillows. Some of the dullness about his eyes had gone, he was smiling gently and his face did not look as ashen. It seemed that Sam Gamgee was good for him. Perhaps he would pass on to Frodo the task of teaching Sam his letters.

“Here we are, lad. This is the willow bark tea and some milk to wash it down. Two big swallows and the medicine will be gone.” He handed over the smaller of the cups to Sam, who put it to Frodo’s lips at once, tipping in the suggested large mouthful. Frodo’s eyes widened and he swallowed quickly, his mouth turning down at the corners in an involuntary grimace. Sam gave him no time to pause as he delivered the second mouthful. He had been given this tea once when he broke a finger and he knew it tasted very bitter. As soon as it was swallowed Bilbo handed Sam the milk and Frodo drank it greedily, desperate to be rid of the horrible taste of the medicine.

“Well done, Frodo,” Bilbo praised. “Now let’s get this tray out of the way and you can take a little nap.” He removed the empty tray and Sam clambered down as gently as he could. The older Baggins helped Frodo scoot down beneath the covers, tucking them under his chin as soon as he was comfortable. Blue eyes closed and Bilbo signalled for Sam to follow him from the room. Frodo was exhausted by pain and shock and the willow bark tea would ease him enough to let him sleep now.

As they reached the door a small voice whispered, “Thank you, Sam. And please tell your mother that she makes the best mashed potato and gravy I’ve ever tasted.”

Sam blushed. “I will, Mr Frodo, and I hope as how you’re feelin’ better soon.”

 

0o0

Bell and Daisy were washing and May was drying the pots when Sam got home. Hamfast was playing with Marigold on the floor by the fire.

His Ma brought the warmed meal to the table and Sam tucked in. “Mr Frodo says to thank you and that you make the best mashed potato and gravy he’s ever tasted,” Sam reported.

Bell preened a little, although all she said was, “Well, he’s probably never had proper mashed potato and giblet gravy, livin’ the wrong side of the river as he was. But I’m pleased he liked ‘em.”

“How’s he doin’?” asked Sam’s Da.

“He’s broken his right arm an’ hurt the left but the doctor says he’ll be right as ninepence tomorrow. Mr Bilbo gave him some of that horrible willow bark tea and he was goin’ to sleep when I left.”

Bell nodded approvingly. “Sleep and good food’s the best thing for him. I’ll send ye across with some sweet potato puddin’ tomorrow. That’ll set him right.”

Sam grinned. Oh yes. Ma’s sweet potato puddin’ would set anyone right, and if they were lucky, they would all get a taste of it.


	4. The Brandybuck Intervention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is new to the original series.

“Can you pour the tea, Frodo?”

Frodo lifted the lid and stirred the fragrant contents of the teapot. “Yes Bilbo. I can manage that at least,” he replied a little ruefully. Even this had to be done slowly for he was naturally right handed and that was the arm in splints. His left wrist sported a supporting bandage too, although the pain and swelling had reduced considerably in the past few days.

Bilbo added a couple of rashers of bacon to each plate while Frodo filled their cups and joined him at the table. Just as he was reaching for the milk jug there was a loud knock at the kitchen door. “Sticklebacks!” There was nothing more frustrating to a hobbit than being interrupted when about to tuck into second breakfast.

Grinning, Frodo went to answer the summons. “Hello, Mister Gamgee. What can I do for you?”

Hamfast tugged at his forelock and held out a handful of letters. “Me and Halfred met the postmaster on his way up the hill so we said we’d delivery these for him.”

“Thank you, Ham,” Bilbo called from the table, where he was cutting up Frodo’s bacon for him. “I’ll pop out after breakfast to have a word with you about the roses.”

“Aye, Mister Bilbo, sir. Me and Halfred will get on with the weedin’ ‘til then.”

Frodo settled down at his place just as Bilbo finished cutting the bacon and he nodded thanks as he handed over the post. Bilbo grabbed a mouthful of scrambled egg before sifting through the envelopes. 

“There’s one for you.” He handed over a cream envelope and Frodo accepted it with raised brows. It was the first letter he had received since moving to Bag End and he recognised Aunt Esmeralda’s round script at once.

He tore open the envelope and perused the single sheet of paper it contained, his brows drawing down now. “It seems Aunt Esme has heard about my fall. She’s asking if we would like to celebrate our birthdays and the Harvest Home at Brandy Hall.”

Bilbo looked up a little sheepishly. “I’m afraid I was the one who told her. I thought it would be better to hear it directly from me than through gossip. I suspect that by the time the gossip reached Buckland, Esme would be told that you had broken every bone in your body when I flung you from a tree.”

Frodo had to grin, knowing only too well how the gossip tree worked. He forked up a piece of bacon, judging it a little crispy for his liking but grateful that Bilbo was willing to take the greater share of the work at present. 

“Would you like to go back and visit, lad? We can if you wish.”

Frodo did not need to consider for too long. “I feel as though I’ve only been here five minutes. I think I’d like to celebrate our birthday here this year. If that’s alright with you.”

When Bilbo did not reply Frodo looked up to find his uncle reading a letter on the same cream paper. “I have a letter from Saradoc,” he announced baldly.

“You don’t sound very happy about that,” Frodo observed with growing concern.

“Esme’s letter may have been a suggestion but Sara is not so diplomatic. We have been summoned to Buckland. It seems he is concerned about my ‘parenting skills’.

Frodo set down his fork, suddenly losing interest in his breakfast. “Oh dear. I am so sorry, Bilbo. This is all my fault for being careless.”

Bilbo threw down the letter. “Nonsense, lad. It was an accident . . .pure and simple. Saradoc was never happy about your adoption. He thinks this crusty old bachelor has no right to be looking after a tween.”

“Well, he’s wrong! I love being with you.”

Bilbo sighed. “I’m afraid there’s nothing for it. I’ll send Halfred over to Bywater to deliver a message for Tom Carter. He will still be around after delivering the mail and if he’s heading back Buckland way he may be able to take us as passengers.” He nodded to Frodo’s arm. “You’re in no fit state yet to walk all that way.”

-0-

It seemed to Frodo that half the occupants of Brandy Hall were gathered at the large front door to greet them. Esmeralda was smiling and ran forward to kiss his cheek and then envelope him in a careful hug. She held him at arm’s length for a moment to study him. “Well, you look a little tired but otherwise well,” she pronounced with a knowing glance aside to her husband.

Saradoc was not smiling as he shook Bilbo’s hand. Others came forward to greet the pair and then, suddenly, there was a shriek and a tiny figure bolted forward, flinging his arms about Frodo’s waist. “Frodo!”

Frodo staggered under the momentum of his attacker but recovered quickly. “Hello, Merry!”

“Up!” the faunt demanded, reaching up his arms.

“I’m afraid I can’t, Merry dear.” Frodo could almost feel the ice coming off the glare Saradoc gave Bilbo. “I’ve hurt my arm.”

Merry’s eyes widened as Frodo pointed to his arm, in its sling. He had made a conscious decision to discard the bandage on his other wrist the day before, aware that Saradoc needed no further ammunition. The little lad reached up to touch the sling, stroking gently along Frodo’s forearm. “Poor Frodo,” he pronounced as he turned to his mother. “Mama, kiss it better,” he demanded, with all the faith of any faunt in the healing power of a mother’s love.

Esmeralda tucked her son into her skirts. “I’ll kiss it later. But I think what Frodo needs now is a wash, something to eat and a nap.”

Saradoc motioned for them to enter the hall. “While you see to that, Bilbo and I will have a chat.”

Bilbo offered Frodo a wink when the lad looked as though he would protest their separation. “You go ahead with your Aunt, Frodo. I’ll see you at supper.”

-0-

Saradoc led Bilbo into his study, it’s neatness a strong contrast to Bilbo’s eclectic muddle. For some minutes, they talked stiltedly of the weather and travel, the state of the crops and whether Eglantine Took’s recently announced pregnancy would finally produce a male heir for the Thain. The older hobbit recognised this for what it was . . . a delaying tactic . . . and played along readily enough.

Esmeralda swept in a few minutes later with a smile and a flurry of fine lace petticoats. “There now. I’ve put you and Frodo in the blue room. I thought you’d like to share and it’s a nice big room.” She smiled, her green eyes filled with warmth. “I’ve left Frodo unpacking.”

Saradoc bristled, “On his own . . . with only one good arm?”

Esmeralda rolled her eyes as she began to pour a fine red wine into three glasses. “He’s only broken the one arm, dear. He’ll manage well enough.”

Bilbo settled onto a settee, hiding a smirk, but Saradoc noticed and it was all that was needed to let slip his temper at last. “He shouldn’t have to manage. That’s the whole point.” He sat down bristling at Bilbo across the clear expanse of his huge polished desk.

His wife handed him a glass of Winyards, turning to perch on a corner of the desk, between the two protagonists, before offering Bilbo his. “Frodo’s always been a very capable lad, Sara,” she responded calmly.

“Capable of getting into mischief you mean.” Saradoc took a large swallow from his glass and Bilbo cringed at the blatant disregard for such a beautifully mellow wine.

Esmeralda chuckled. “We used to call him the Terror of Brandy Hall. If there was trouble to be had, Frodo Baggins would find it.”

Seeing now, how the land lay with Esmeralda and Saradoc Bilbo relaxed a little, taking a moment to savour a sip of wine before making his own observation. He couldn’t resist bating Saradoc, however. The fellow was just too, ‘upright’. “He’s a Baggins, through and through.” He had to bite his cheek as his words had the desired effect. He’d always been able to dig himself beneath Saradoc’s skin.

All the anger he had been holding at bay for days bubbled over and Saradoc exploded upward to pace before the row of three round windows behind him. “I was against this adoption from the start. That lad’s had enough trouble in his life. He doesn’t need to be led into any more by ‘Mad Baggins’.”

Esmeralda’s eyes widened as she watched Bilbo, but ‘Mad Baggins’ continued to sip his wine.

“And I have no intention of doing so. I have had my adventure, and very enjoyable it was. But Frodo is yet too young to be traipsing off after wizards.” In truth, Bilbo felt a little uncomfortable with that statement, for there were moments of his adventure that could only truly be considered enjoyable when viewed through the softening lens of time.

When Saradoc began to turn puce his wife stepped in. “Do stop blustering dear. You know the doctor says it’s not good for you.” With a sigh, she led him back to his chair and placed the glass in his hand once more and to his credit, Saradoc allowed her to do so. 

Esmeralda stood at her husband’s shoulder. “I don’t share Sara’s opinion about the adoption, as you know. I think the undivided attention of one person is exactly what Frodo needs. But you really must give him that attention, Bilbo dear.”

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably. Had he been too absorbed in his own interests? He confessed that there were occasions, in the middle of a particularly difficult translation, when he lost track of time as well as Frodo.

Noting his hesitation, Esmeralda pressed on. “I think you and Frodo are good for each other. He will keep you grounded.” They all winced at that wording. “And you will keep that sharp mind of his occupied. It was boredom that was at the root of many of his pranks here.”

Saradoc’s features had faded to a more normal colour as his wife spoke. Now his tone was exasperated, rather than angry. “Did you even know he was up a tree?”

Bilbo had regained some of his own composure. “I did not. Although he tells me he did so first whilst living here.”

Now it was Saradoc’s turn to squirm for he had not been privy to that particular fact. Esmeralda laid a gentle hand upon her husband’s shoulder. “I knew. As he grew, the ‘Terror’ was slowly replaced by the ‘Scholar’. That’s another of the reasons I thought you would be so well suited.”

Saradoc laid a hand over hers. His outbursts of temper were always short lived. “The lad needs nurturing, Bilbo.”

Bilbo nodded. “I know and I am trying my hardest. We’re rubbing along nicely most of the time and he’s certainly turning into a very good scholar.”

Saradoc shook his head. “He’s a tween. There should be more in his head than books. Are there any lasses of his age in Hobbiton?” he asked pointedly.

Bilbo blinked. His own tweenage years had been so long ago that he had forgotten the heady discovery of lasses, the flirting, the uncertainty, the anguish of first rejection. Frodo had only just entered his tweens though. Surely there was time for him to grow into that? He had a sudden very sobering thought. Had Saradoc told Frodo about the birds and the bees? Was Bilbo expected to tackle that subject?

Noting the thoughts flitting across Bilbo’s face Esmeralda smiled. “How old were you when you had your first proper kiss, Bilbo?”

Gilly Brownlock’s freckled features formed in Bilbo’s mind. Now, there had been a willing participant in his first attempts. Of course, she had been eclipsed by the arrival of Pansy Berrydown in his young life. Bilbo pushed down the image of glossy chestnut curls and laughing eyes the colour of new holly leaves. Marriage and faunts had not been for him but Frodo was not Bilbo. “I don’t remember precisely.”

Saradoc set down his glass. “We are not telling you to throw him into the arms of the next willing lass, but at least make sure that he gets out and about amongst lads and lasses of his own age. I know there’s not the choice in a small place like Hobbiton that we have here, but there must be some. There’s more to life than books and tall tales, Bilbo.”

Half an hour ago Bilbo may have bristled at that last comment but now he considered carefully. “I suppose I just assumed that, as he showed such an interest in my books, he was getting all he needed. But you may have a point. I shall make sure he attends social occasions more often.”

Esmeralda raised finely arched brows. “And how will you do that, Bilbo dear?”

At first inclined to make some glib comment about shoving the lad out of the door, Bilbo was suddenly reminded of something his father had once told him. “The best way to teach is not to tell but to show.”

“I suppose we could start by attending Harvest Home here . . . together.”

Esmeralda’s face broke into a smile. “I think that would be a very good idea. He can help with the harvest again and get re-acquainted with some of his old friends.”

“And just how is he supposed to help with harvest when he only has one good arm?” her husband enquired with a frown, still a little unwilling to let Bilbo off the hook.

Esmeralda smacked his shoulder playfully. “He can keep Merry out of trouble for a start.”

Bilbo chuckled. If he knew Frodo Baggins at all, he suspected that before long he would be getting Merry into far more trouble than he would be keeping him out of.


	5. Light, Love and Laughter

Sam stood on tiptoe to ring the bell hanging beside Bag End’s round green door. As he waited for what felt to the youngster a very long while, he studied the sky. It was overcast and he hoped Old Widow Rumble was right when she had told him that it would not rain today. A loud groan of hinges announced the opening of Bag End’s door and he spun about to discover himself face to weskit with Mister Bilbo.

“Hello Sam. What brings you out on this cold afternoon?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, Mister Bilbo, but Da sent me to ask if you was needin’ any greenery for the yule decoratin’ in Bag End. Only me and Halfred and Da is goin’ into the woods to collect some.”

Bilbo smiled down at the lad. “How very good of you. But I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble. I bought a few sprigs of holly at market yesterday.” He bent down to whisper, “Between you and me they’re a bit straggly, but they’ll do in a pinch.”

Samwise drew himself up to his full height to announce with some certainty, “Oh, my big brother, Halfred, knows where there’s some mistletoe and Da always finds the best holly bushes. Nobody else knows about ‘em. We can bring you some pretty stuff.”

Bilbo considered for a moment. “Very well. If you think you can manage to carry enough for Bag End as well, yes, I would love some.”

Sam beamed. “We’re goin’ to take the handcart so we’ll be able to get lots.” He spun about to race back down the hill, shouting over his shoulder, “Goodbye Mister Bilbo.”

Bilbo closed the door pausing once inside to chuckle at the exuberance of the very young. Frodo stepped out of the parlour, hefting a set of ladders. “Was that Sam Gamgee?”

“It was. You had better leave those here for it seems we are to have lots of decorating to do upon his return.”

Frodo sighed with relief as he leaned them against the wall and blew hair out of his eyes. “I thought you had decided not to do too much decorating this Yuletide.”

His comment was met with a sniff. “Well, I’ve changed my mind. Come and help me mix the Yule pudding. Then we need to put some oil on that door hinge.”

Frodo grinned. There was just no telling what Burglar Baggins would do next. That was one of the things he liked most about his uncle. Bilbo could be infuriating, absent minded, even self-absorbed upon occasion, but he was never predictable.

It was dark by the time Sam, Halfred and their father, Hamson Gamgee, came ringing at Bilbo’s door again. Light spilled out from the hallway to reveal a handcart piled high with the deep, glossy sheen of holly, the vibrant glow of red berries, blue green spikes of sweet scented pine and pale green and white clusters of mistletoe. 

“Oh my! You three must have worked like an army of beavers to collect all that in just a few hours.”

Ham chuckled. “T’were a hard afternoon’s work I’ll grant you but twas worth it. Just let me know how much of this you’ve a fancy to and me and Halfred will bring it in for you. No sense in all of us getting scratched.” He held out his hands to show liberal smears of blood amongst the grime.

“Oh dear. Holly does not like to be cut, does it? But shouldn’t you find out how much Bell needs for your smial first? I know how she loves to decorate for Yule.”

Ham and Hal began tugging at the holly. “Oh, she’s had her pick and Daisy and May are goin’ to be busy tonight I can tell you,” Hamfast assured him. “No Sam. Don’t you go touchin’ the mistletoe. Leave that to the grown-ups.” 

“Just pile it in the corner over there if you would,” Bilbo advised. “I think just one clump of mistletoe and perhaps half of the holly and pine that you have there.” He stood back as Hamfast and Halfred began dragging branches into the hall. “How much would you like for them?”

Frodo appeared from the kitchen, blinking when he saw the green bounty. “Hello Master Gamgee, Halfred. Surely that is not all for us?”

Hamfast paused to acknowledge the young master before adding a large clump of mistletoe to the top of heap. “Bless you, Mister Bilbo. I don’t want no money from you. Look on it as a Yule gift from the Gamgees to the Baggins.”

Halfred winked. “We’ll sell the rest at market tomorrow. There’s always someone leaves it ‘til last minute and tis much better than the stuff Sandon Grubb was sellin’ the other day. I reckon this were an afternoon well spent. Mayhap we should try it every year.”

Hamfast tutted. “Not every year, lad. Give the poor trees time to regrow. It don’t pay to be too greedy with nature.” He touched fingers to his forelock. “We’ll say goodnight, sir. My Bell will be waitin’ supper on us and no doubt you’ll be wantin’ yours.” He nodded to the wooden spoon in Frodo’s hand and the lad grinned.

“Goodnight Hamfast. And thank you for the gift. I’ll see you at the celebration tomorrow.” 

Hamfast and Halfred headed back down the hill with their much lighter cart while little Sam Gamgee skipped on ahead to number three. 

-0-

“Have you the kindling bag, Frodo?” Bilbo grunted as he made final adjustments to the huge oak log in the parlour fireplace, setting loose a soft expletive when one of the sprigs of holly decorating it scratched his wrist.

“Here, Uncle. It took some finding. What was it doing in your study?” Frodo held out the small hemp bag and Bilbo opened it, scattering ashes and small lumps of charred wood from last year’s yule log around the base of this years.

“I seem to remember having an idea for a translation that I was working on at the time. I thought I’d better write it down before I forgot so I set the bag on my desk.” Bilbo shrugged. “Then things got away from me, and for the rest of the year I just kept moving it from place to place.”

Frodo giggled. “You mean, from pile to pile.”

Both Baggins stood back to admire their day’s labour. The mantle and window sills were all but hidden beneath swags of holly and pine, with a few pinecones and some red ribbon bows for good measure. Sprigs of mistletoe hung on either side of the freshly scrubbed fireplace and pale candles stood ready in every sconce. The room was filled with the scent of greenery, laced with beeswax, mingled with the spicy richness of mulled wine and baking that drifted in from the kitchen. 

Bilbo clapped his nephew on the shoulder. “Not a bad job if I say so myself. Is the bonfire ready down the hill?”

Frodo nodded. “I helped Mister Gamgee haul up the holly crown myself. It looks rather grand. We didn’t have that tradition in Buckland. Is it true that everyone will be coming to the bonfire?”

“Oh yes. All are welcome at the Yule fire.” Bilbo glanced toward the window. “Speaking of fires, I think I see the first star so we’d best light our own. Being top of the hill, so to speak, it all starts with us.”

Half a dozen eager steps brought Frodo to the parlour window. Sure enough, although it was getting dark, not a candle showed down in Hobbiton. “Goodness. It looks so sad with no lights. But for the kitchen chimney smoke you’d think it was deserted.”

Bilbo took flint from his pocket and bent to the hearth, beckoning Frodo to join him. “Then let’s make sure they don’t sit in darkness for much longer.” He struck flint to the kindling in the hearth and blew gently. The wood shavings caught first, their edges shimmering yellow as each curl burned from outside to centre. Soft wisps of grey smoke drifted through the larger twigs and soon they caught, spitting and cracking. The charred wood from last yule’s log kindled next, its light more blue than yellow as it licked at the green of the holly leaves decorating this years. Finally, the yule log began to char. It had been drying out for weeks so that it would burn well but it was the bark that took first, whistling as steam escaped through cracks, followed by tiny spurts of yellow flame.

Keeping another for himself, Frodo handed his uncle a twig of dry holly, its leaves curled and brittle for it had been cut some days before. 

“Time to say goodbye to the old year, lad.” They knelt together before the fragrant fire for some time, each contemplating the events of the past year. Both smiled softly as they came to the independent conclusion that there had been more good than bad. It was Bilbo who leaned forward first, flicking his holly into the growing flames. Frodo followed suit only a moment later.

The older hobbit clapped his hands and grinned at his nephew. “Now that we’ve dispensed with the old year, let’s start the new one.” He selected a twig from the kindling basket, lighting it from the fire and then setting it to the wick of a large fat candle offered reverently by Frodo. As the golden glow began to light their faces they recited the yule blessing together. “May we have hearth to comfort, fire to cook and candle to guide us home.”

Frodo stood, shielding the delicate flame as he crossed to the window and placed it in a lantern set amongst the greenery; Hobbiton’s first light of the new year. Bilbo brought another lantern and its candle was lit from the one in the window. Frodo ran into the hall to collect their cloaks as his uncle took a moment to place a wire guard before the fire.

As they made their way down the hill Frodo saw folk drifting out of their darkened smials, to stand in their gardens. Someone from each smial held an unlit candle. Bilbo stopped at the gate of number three. “Yuletide greetings to you, Hamfast.”

“And to you, Mister Bilbo.” 

Bilbo opened the door of his lantern and Hamfast reached in to touch his candle to the one burning warmly within. As the wick caught Bilbo bowed, intoning, “May you have hearth to comfort, fire to cook and candle to guide you home.” 

Frodo saw now that the whole Gamgee family was standing in their darkened doorway. Bell stepped forward solemnly to light a candle from her husbands and, followed by the girls, took it indoors to light their own yule log and set a lantern in the window of number three’s kitchen.

Hamfast stepped on down the lane, followed by Frodo and Bilbo, to where Harry Mugwort waited at the gate to number two Bagshot Row. Ham offered greeting then repeated the blessing as he watched Harry light his own candle and pass the flame to his mother, Clover Mugwort. The yule log was lit at their home and the flame passed by Harry, to Arty Sedgeburry.

Slowly the yule flame passed from hand to hand. From their high point half way down the hill, Bilbo and Frodo watched little pinpoints of golden light bob from smial to smial, spreading outward along all the lanes of Hobbiton. Frodo was reminded of a morning glory, spreading open her petals to the sun. Soon a candle shone in every window and a log blazed in every hearth. 

Then the light merged from single points to groups and then lines as it contracted once more, converging upon the Party Field at the foot of the lane. The residents of the hill formed a golden river of their own, that moved off to merge with others until there was a long candle lit procession, with Bilbo at the front. Excited faunts skipped along at their parents’ side whilst others, too sleepy, were carried in father’s arms. Kitchen chairs were dressed with ribbons and pressed into use to carry the old folk and, here and there, a good natured jibe was muttered about dropping some particularly cantankerous aunty. There would be music and singing on the way home but now there were only whispered greetings and the occasional reedy voice of a faunt. 

All Hobbiton formed a circle about the huge bonfire in the Party Field, waiting.

Once more it was Bilbo who stepped forward with his lantern. Lifting out the candle, he pushed it deep into the centre of the holly crowned pile that stood three times as tall as a hobbit. Once more smoke curled, wood crackled and an orange glow began to peep through the carefully stacked branches and logs. Youngsters cheered as the first sparks flew heavenward.

Other candles were lobbed into the growing blaze as folk joined hands about the fire. With one voice the cry went up,

“Tis the time of endings.  
Tis the time of beginnings.  
Health, Hope and Happiness.  
Light, Love and Laughter.  
Prosperity and Peace to all!”

Bilbo turned to hug those closest and found Frodo. “Health, hope and happiness, lad.”

Frodo’s bright eyes brimmed with life and he grinned as he was released. “Light, love and laughter, Bilbo.”

Bilbo drew him into another hug. “Prosperity and peace to us all.”

Behind them someone struck up a drum and the first few notes of the Yule Circle sang out from a fiddle. Bilbo grabbed Frodo’s hand and Buttercup Rumble took his other as all around the fire a circle was formed. A chord was struck and the circle began to move as everyone’s feet trod the age-old pattern.

His feet long used to the ancient measure Bilbo used the time to watch his nephew. The lad’s face was filled with a light that had nothing to do with the glow of the fire about which they danced. Bilbo had to shout to be heard over the voices of the singers. “I’m so glad you’re here to share Yule with me this year, Frodo.”

Frodo face broke into a joyous grin. “Oh, so am I, Uncle. So am I.”

Their voices joined the chorus while, before them, the bonfire sent showers of golden sparks upward to blend with Elbereth’s silver stars, wheeling in their own ageless circle about the night sky.


	6. Bags and Thoughts on Bagin' a Baggins

“Let me see those hands afore ye sit down, Sam,” Bell demanded as she set his plate on the table at the side closest to the fire. The lad had just come back from helping his father clear snow from the garden path at Bag End and the cold air had turned his nose and ears quite purple. Dawn had brought with it an unusually heavy fall of snow.

What a waste of time that had been . . . and Hamfast was off to Hobbiton to help Widow Rumble with her path. Bell looked up from the sink drainer, where she was drying pots, and rubbed away some of the condensation from the window. Within five minutes of Hamfast leaving the snow had started up again and a strong blustery wind was dashing large wet flakes against the windowpanes. Bell hoped that her husband would soon be inside. She knew that Buttercup would at least keep him warm with plenty of cups of hot tea once he reached her smial. 

A small tug at her apron told Bell that Sam had finished washing and she examined the sturdy little hands, turning them over to check the finger nails. Not that Hamfast and the lads ever managed to keep their nails clean . . . but Bell insisted that they at least try. She reached down and ruffled his hair.

“Ye’ll do. Go eat yer elevenses. And don’t go gobblin’ up all the bread. Leave some for luncheon.”

Sam’s face, which had lit up at sight of the big plate of bread and butter, fell. He tucked in nonetheless, ignoring Daisy’s snigger. They all looked up at a tentative tap at the door. Daisy suddenly became engrossed in her mending and Sam started to get up, but Bell put a hand on his shoulder.

May would have stood from her place by the hearth, where she was sewing a new doll for a currently napping Marigold. Her mother waved her down as well. “Go see who’s at the door, Daisy.”

Daisy sighed and made a big show of securing her needle and folding the cut down nightshirt she had been making over for Sam.

“Spit spot, lass. Whoever’s there is standin’ in a blizzard,” chided Bell and Daisy jumped to obey, aware she had taken one step the wrong side of a line. Sam ducked his head to hide a smile and May suddenly concentrated hard on her stitching, but Bell knew enough about siblings to cast a disapproving eye at each.

Daisy opened the door, admitting a flurry of snow and revealing a figure in a thick green hooded cloak. From the depths of the big hood a light but cultured voice asked, “Good morning, Miss Daisy. Is Mistress Gamgee at home please?”

Not used to being addressed in this manner, Daisy simply blinked and turned back to her mother for instruction. Bell realised who it was as soon as he spoke and bustled forward, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Bless me, lass. Invite poor Master Frodo in. He must be half froze, standin’ on the doorstep. And close the door proper after him. Don’t go lettin’ in any more cold air.”

Daisy stepped back and Frodo entered quickly, turning to close the door himself, before pushing back the hood of his cloak and wiping his feet on the mat. The young lass assessed him critically, having previously seen him only from a distance, and dismissing him at once as too skinny and pale than was proper for a hobbit, returned to her sewing.

Bell took over as hostess. “Come in, Young Master. Let me take yer cloak. Ye must be froze. Come sit by the fire.”

Frodo made to protest at first but within seconds she had unfastened his cloak, draping it over a chair to warm by the range, and shepherded him to sit on the bench beside Sam. Frodo grinned down at the lad. “Hello again, Sam.” 

“Mornin’ Master Frodo, sir,” Sam replied with a shy smile. 

As soon as the doctor pronounced Frodo well enough to travel after his tumble, Bilbo had escorted the lad back to Brandy Hall for a visit. Bell suspected that they had been summoned. They had celebrated their joint birthday in Buckland, only returning in time for the Yule festivities. Cold weather had ensured that the Gamgees had seen little of either Baggins for some time after their return.

Frodo returned his attention to his hostess. “Thank you, Mistress Gamgee. I did not think to interrupt your elevenses. Bilbo asked me to run down to enquire if you could spare any yeast. He had intended to go into Hobbiton to buy some, but with the weather as it is . . .”

Bell set a cup of tea in front of their guest and pushed the honey pot towards him. Frodo eyed the nearly empty pot and shook his head. “I don’t take honey, thank you.” His mouth dropped open. “Oh . . . that reminds me.” Tugging at his jacket pocket the tween pulled out a small jar, holding it out to Bell. “Bilbo asked if you could find a use for this honey. He bought it in Hobbiton last week but is not terribly fond of the flavour. He usually buys from Charlie Proudfoot and it will only be wasted if we keep it.”

Bell smiled as she looked at the unbroken seal, recognising the ploy but willing to accept because she knew it was kindly meant. Sam licked his lips as he eyed the pot.

“Thank ye, Young Master and please pass on my thanks to Mister Bilbo. I were goin’ to bake some cakes this afternoon and this’ll come in right handy. I’ll send Sam across with one later for yer tea.”

Frodo’s eyes lit up at the mention of cake and Bell bringing the warmth of summer sun on this bleak day. The lad had the makings of a handsome catch for some young lass in the future.

“Yeast, did ye say? I’m sure I’ve got some in the pantry. Let me check.” Bell disappeared through a small door, returning a few moments later with a small covered basin. “Did he say how much he wanted?”

Frodo nodded, the scrape of a fork on china drawing the young gentlehobbit’s eyes inexorably to the contents of Sam’s plate. Dark eyebrows drew together in thought as he stared at the thin squares of pale cream and grey, dressed with malt vinegar and salt. “Enough to make three loaves, he said.”

Noting the direction of his gaze, Bell considered the contents of her pantry and decided she could do without elevenses today. “Have ye eaten elevenses? There’s plenty of pig bag left if ye care to join Sam.”

Frodo blushed. “Oh, thank you for the offer, but Bilbo was about to make some bacon sandwiches.” His dark brows drew together once more. “What is pig bag?”

For a moment Bell was surprised, and then she considered the young hobbit’s upbringing. His diet had probably never included such items. She knew that Mr Bilbo didn’t eat much offal, apart from kidneys and liver, and she didn’t want to even consider what those strange folks in Buckland ate.

“Why don’t ye try a mouthful? Give him a bit of yours, Sam.” She handed Frodo a clean fork from the draining board and Sam slid his plate towards their guest.

Frodo’s blush deepened. “Oh, I couldn’t eat some of your elevenses, Sam. Goodness knows but you’ve earned it with all the hard work you did this morning,” he stammered.

“T’aint no trouble, Master Frodo. I can spare a mouthful,” Sam assured him gravely.

Frodo speared a small piece and popped it in his mouth. It had a mild flavour . . . the grey layer a little dry and crumbly and the cream layer a chewier texture, with a thin smear of fat between. He nodded in approval as he swallowed. “It’s very nice. But what is it?”

“We get it from the butcher in Hobbiton. Tis a messy, smelly job preparin’ and cookin’ it yerself. Tis boiled pig’s stomach, chopped up.”

The pink tinge in Frodo’s cheeks, so recently conjured by the cold weather, suddenly faded and he took a large swallow of strong tea. “That’s interesting.”

Bell rescued the used fork, throwing it in a basin of washing up water in the sink and in her chair by the fire Daisy sniggered. 

“Daisy Gamgee, ye hold yer tongue. Likely as not they eat different the other side of the river. T’aint polite to laugh at a guest and I taught ye better manners.” Bell turned back to the sink to hide her own smile. In future, she would have to remember that the young master was squeamish about such things. She divided her yeast and popped some in an old cup that had long since lost its handle, turning back to hand it to Frodo.

He accepted it gravely. “Thank you. I’d best get back, or Bilbo will have the bacon burned,” he announced, draining his teacup and rising. Bell shook out his cloak and laid it about his shoulders, fastening the large buttons and pulling up the hood without thinking . . . treating him as one of her own. Frodo found he quite liked it and stood still to allow her to do so.

“Now ye keep that yeast inside yer cloak and don’t let the snow at it. Or ye’ll have bread as flat as pancakes.”

“Yes, Mistress Gamgee. Goodbye.”

Sam ran ahead to open the door and, with a final nod of thanks, Frodo slipped out, running as fast as he could back to the warmth of Bag End.

“Well, close the door, Sam,” called Daisy, happy to be able to catch her younger brother in the same fault of which she had often been guilty. With a last glance at Frodo’s retreating figure, Sam closed the door.

Daisy’s jibe had not been missed by her mother. “That’ll do, Daisy. Have ye finished that shirt yet?”

“No, Ma.”

“Well, get a move on then . . . or Sam will have grown out of it afore ye’ve finished. And small stitches mind ye. I’ll have none of yer cobblin’.”

Sam returned to his meal, glancing at his sister, whilst trying to hide a grin, and Daisy checked that her mother’s back was turned before sticking her tongue out at him. May had the sense not to become involved.

“He’s a skinny one,” Daisy commented, mainly because she could see that Sam had taken a liking to the new Baggins but also because she enjoyed shocking her younger sister. “They say he’s sickly too. I like my lads with a bit more meat on ‘em,” she announced, boldly as May’s mouth dropped open.

Bell did not bother turning from her washing up. “We don’t listen to nor pass on no gossip about the Baggins family, Daisy. And I should hope that ye were not takin’ a serious interest in any lads, whatever their build, until ye come of age, young madam.” She set the freshly washed fork on the draining board once more. “He’s got plenty of time to fill out and he’ll be a good catch one day. I dare say Mister Bilbo will make sure he’s well provided for. The lad’s got a nice way with him an’ a pleasin’ face.”

At mention of Frodo being “well provided for” Daisy began to re-assess her comment. Perhaps he would be worth her notice after all. She would add him to the bottom of her list of potential’s. 

Bell turned and caught her eldest daughter staring off into the fire. “Daisy Gamgee, stop wool gatherin’ and start sewin’.”

“Yes, Ma.”

Her mother sighed. Daisy was getting to that age.


	7. A Mother's Touch

Frodo called a hello to May Gamgee, who was supervising her young sister, Marigold, as they gathered strawberries from the patch in the garden of Number Three. From the bright red lips of both girls, the stains down the front of Marigold’s pinafore and the only half-filled basins, Frodo suspected there was very little supervising and a great deal of nibbling going on. 

He hesitated before the door. A light spring breeze ruffled Frodo’s hair and he turned his head in irritation as a few stray strands of fringe got caught in his eyelashes and whipped across his high cheekbones. Perhaps it was too long but why couldn’t Bilbo cut it? 

A loud, “Ouch . . . Daisy!” came from beyond the yellow door and Frodo took an involuntary step backwards. Maybe his hair wasn’t that long after all. The conversation beyond the door continued at a loud volume and Frodo grimaced.

“Good grief, lass. Ye’ve taken off half my ear.”

“Serves you right for movin’. I told you to sit still.” Came Daisy’s shrill reply, with more than a little sadistic glee.

“Come here and let me look. Tush lad. ‘Tis nothin but a clip. Ye’ll live. Get on with ye,” Bell’s firm voice encouraged. “Go help yer Da and young Sam with the taters at Bag End.” 

Too late, Frodo turned to leave but there was nowhere to hide and he had no sooner turned on his heel than Halfred threw open the door, pausing to roll up his sleeves. Turning back, Frodo’s eyes were drawn inexorably to the small drop of blood at the tip of Halfred’s left ear.

“Oh! Mornin’ young Master Frodo. I nearly bowled ye over. I didn’t hear ye knock.”

“Errr. No. I was just about to, when you came to the door.”

Halfred and Frodo were near enough in height and the Gamgee lad leaned close. “Don’t let Daisy loose on yer hair. Ye’ll look like a half-drowned kitten when she’s finished.” He half turned and shouted over his shoulder, “I’ve seen better jobs done on hedges.” 

Both he and Frodo dodged when a damp towel flew towards them, followed by Bell’s raised voice. “Halfred . . . ye stop yer teasin’ and Daisy . . . stop throwin’ about my good towels.” 

Obviously used to his younger sister’s antics, Halfred had plucked the wet towel out of the air with ease. With a conspiratorial wink and a whispered, “Good luck,” he pushed it into Frodo hands and ushered him across the threshold into the steamy warmth of Bells kitchen. “Yes Ma. Sorry. Here’s Master Frodo.” 

Bell beckoned from the other end of the huge scrubbed kitchen table, accepting the towel with a smile. “Come in Young Master. Take off yer jacket and have a seat. I’m just waiting for the next lot of water to boil. She fanned her red face with her apron and peered through the thick dimness of the small-windowed room. 

“Daisy lass. Tis worse than wash day in here. Go open the windows for a while to let some of the steam out afore we all drown. And hang up this towel while ye’re at it.”

Frodo shrunk aside as Daisy moved to comply behind him, her skirts brushing his calves on the way past. The room was a little over cluttered with furniture, but not enough to warrant her stepping quite that close. He removed his jacket and took some time to drape it carefully across the table before perching nervously upon the end of a bench.

“Won’t be long now, Mr Frodo. Mr Bilbo said yer hair could be cut dry, but we can see better what’s going on if it’s wet. Daisy, have ye got the clean towels ready and the soft soap? And for goodness sake, give those scissors a good rinse and wipe.”

Frodo winced as Daisy flounced onto the bench directly opposite him and began to wipe and clean the scissors. He found his eyes drawn to the small smear of blood on the cloth, evidence of her last victim. She met his eyes with a suggestive glint and ran the cloth slowly up and down one blade, then the other. Frodo could feel himself blushing and tried to look anywhere else, without seeming impolite.

“Right now, come and help me fill the basin with hot water, Daisy . . . Daisy?” Bell’s voice paused and even Frodo cringed at the final, “Daisy Gamgee. Ye put those scissors down and come here at once. And when ye’ve helped me with this ye can go and feed the sow.”

“Sow! The lads always draw lots over that job when it’s hot. It’s horrible.” Nevertheless, Daisy helped her mother ladle hot and cold water into a large enamel basin on the table. Her compliance did not win her a reprieve, however, for Bell handed over the bucket of slops. 

“Off ye go, lass. And don’t forget yon sow likes a drink too. As you say, tis a hot day. Make sure she’s got some water.” Her words were almost lost in the sound of the back door slamming. Finally, it was just Frodo and Bell. Frodo let out a long breath . . . blowing his fringe out of his eyes.

Bell slid the basin across the table. “That lass will be the death of me,” she muttered as she turned back to the range.

Frodo sincerely hoped Bell was wrong but could well understand the sentiment as he stared at the firelight glinting on the blades of the scissors. He tore his gaze away, trying not to consider his fate at the hands of Daisy Gamgee. She had a reputation for a sharp tongue and in Frodo’s opinion putting a set of blades in her hand was asking for trouble.

A warm fire glowed in the kitchen range and a large iron casserole sat towards the back, its lid shuddering gently. Bell lifted a cloth and moved the dish closer to the cooler edge of the hob, causing the lid to settle. Still, from it arose the tantalising aroma of stewed rabbit and vegetables. Doubtless a supper supplied by the nearby woods.

“Come round here, if ye please Master Frodo, and sit on the bench in front of the bowl,” Bell instructed. “And slip off that fancy weskit.”

Frodo complied, a little warily. Would he have to take his shirt off? What would happen if Daisy returned? He all but jumped when Bell’s work worn fingers began to tuck under the collar of his shirt. She paused a moment then continued. “We don’t want to get this wet now, do we?” she soothed. “I usually make the youngsters take off their shirts but I reckon ye’ve got sense enough to sit still.”

Frodo breathed a small prayer of thanks to whichever of the Valar had the job of protecting young hobbit lads from the unwanted attentions of young hobbit lasses, wielding sharp scissors and sharper tongues.

Bell produced a small but exquisitely carved wooden comb and began to run it gently through Frodo’s dark curls. He yipped as she found the first knot but once she had his measure Bell managed to untangle the rest relatively painlessly. Frodo found himself surrendering to the process; the firm pressure of one hand upon his scalp while the other pulled the comb over a small area until a knot was worked out. And then there were the long strokes as all the tangles were gone, the feeling of the teeth of the comb scraping lightly down his scalp in steady rhythm. It all became quite soothing.

He blinked when she laid the comb aside, surprised to see how much of his hair was caught in the fine teeth. Just how much hair did he have? Perhaps she had already combed most of it away and Daisy would not have to cut any more off. Bell knew nothing of his thoughts, placing firm hands on his shoulders and pushing down until Frodo’s head hung over the steaming basin.

“Here, lad.” Frodo looked aside to find Bell offering him a folded facecloth and looked up at her in confusion. “Hold it over yer eyes. It’ll stop any stray runs of soap getting in.” 

Only half convinced of the efficacy of this suggestion, Frodo nonetheless held it in place. Any attempt at keeping soap out of his eyes was better than none and his Aunt Calli had never even offered him the option. His eyes used to tear for hours after she washed his hair. Frodo had been washing his own hair ever since he came to Bag End. He was a tween now, after all. He removed the cloth and glanced up. Whatever must Mistress Gamgee think of him? “I can wash it myself, Mistress Gamgee.”

The cloth was guided back at once and Bell filled an old cracked cup from the basin before leaning over Frodo’s hunched shoulders. “I’m sure ye can. But I like washing hair. Besides, knowing young lads I’ll warrant ye’ll have water all over my floor and yerself by the time ye’ve finished.” She tweaked his ear playfully and then poured the warm water gently over Frodo’s head. He was left with no option but to replace the cloth.

Warm. The water flowed from the back of Frodo’s head and down to his temples, where it ran off back into the basin in little splashing trickles. Bell’s fingers followed the path of the water across Frodo’s scalp, gently using liquid and hand to smooth the thick dark hair forward. By the time she had his hair fully wet, Frodo was beginning to relax again, unresisting as her hand guided his head to one side or the other.

Aunt Rosemary had been the last person to wash and cut his hair and Frodo still shuddered at the memory of her rough handling. He and Bilbo had been visiting Brandy Hall for Harvest Home and his elderly aunt had insisted that Frodo have his hair cut for the event. Then she had proceeded to half drown and sheer him like some wayward sheep.

The wetting stopped and Frodo flinched as something cold was dabbed upon his head. Sensing his reaction, Bell paused. 

“Tis alright Master Frodo. ‘Tis just soap shavings softened in water a while. ‘Tis easier than using a block of soap, though I confess it’s a bit cold. It’ll warm when I lather it up.”

Without further ado, Bell’s strong fingers began to swirl in his hair, creating a thick, creamy lather that crackled in Frodo’s ears. Any tension caused by the chill soap was soon worked away by the firm but gentle touch of Bell’s fingers and Frodo’s body drifted down closer to the bowl as the muscles of his back relaxed. 

Aunt Rosemary’s hands had scrubbed and tugged but this was a slow massage of kindly fingers. Frodo was glad that his face was hidden and he swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat as he remembered another’s touch. Aunt Esmeralda loved him, to be sure, but he was one of several youngsters fostered in her care. She had little time to provide the individual love of a mother. For a moment a need to be cherished warred with the need to show that he was an adult. The need for the touch of a mother’s hands won and he was glad of the facecloth covering his watering eyes.

Bell seemed to sense his mood and continued to rub her fingers across his scalp in silence for a few minutes before starting the first rinsing. “There, now, lad. That’s the soaping done so ye can let go that cloth if ye like, while I get fresh water.”

Frodo peeled it away, to find his nose scant inches above the cloudy water. He had not the time to contemplate it, however, as Bell draped a warm towel over his head and slid the basin away.

“Now just ye sit there while I fill this for the last rinse.” 

Frodo felt no inclination to do otherwise. The room was warm and still damp and the air was a strange mixture of lavender scented soap and rabbit stew. For a moment he imagined that the feet moving around on the flagstone floor behind him had burnt chestnut hair instead of rich loam brown. But then the basin, filled with fresh, steaming water, was slid back by Bell’s lined, square hands. His mother’s hands had been smooth and long fingered.

“Let’s just add a drop of this to cut through the last of that soap.” A slightly pungent liquid was poured into the water and Frodo sniffed tentatively. It actually didn’t smell too bad.

“What is it?”

“Tis just cider vinegar. Soap can be nasty stuff to get out of yer hair. Ye’d best put that facecloth back. Don’t want vinegar in yer eyes.” 

The air felt cold on Frodo’s scalp as Bell lifted the towel but the chill was soon washed away by the warm water running over it once more. Frodo surrendered to the sensation of water running through his hair, chased by Bell’s capable fingers. He could hear the squeak of clean hair as she combed her fingers through; the sound setting his teeth on edge. Too soon, it seemed to him, the rinsing stopped and his head was draped in a warmed dry towel. Frodo abandoned his face cloth.

“Up ye come, lad and let’s see how long this tangle really is.” He lifted his head slowly, watching little motes of light dance before his eyes for a moment as his body adjusted to the change in position. Once more Bell’s fingers massaged his scalp, this time through the fabric of the towel, and Frodo could not help a pleasurable smile at the relaxing feel of it. Bilbo loved him dearly; he had no doubt of that. But only a mother could give this kind of loving touch, and he had missed it for far too many years.

A nagging worry began to make itself felt however, as he considered what Daisy would make of the cutting. Hers was anything but a mother’s touch. But there was no sign of Daisy’s return and it was Bell that set the scissors on the table before him.

Bell pushed the basin out of the way and removed the towel. Then she reached aside for a small glass bottle. Opening it, she dabbed a little of the contents onto a finger and rubbed the pale glistening drop of liquid into her palms. Frodo recognised the scent of lavender as Bell began to smooth her palms over his hair. 

“This will help ease out the tangles and make it shine. ‘Tis just oil with a touch of lavender to make it smell nicer. Although I don’t think ye need any help with the shine. Ye’ve got a fine head of hair.” She took up the comb again, having pulled out the fluff of hair from her previous attempt at ordering, and ran it through his now damp locks. To Frodo’s relief, any tangles were soon dealt with and he could feel the teeth of the fine comb running from crown to nape with no resistance. 

Bell’s deft fingers pushed up the hair at his crown several times until she found the little whorl of growth that marked the natural centre and combed the thick, almost black hair out smoothly from it in all directions. Then she fished about in her apron pocket and produced two smaller combs, which she set upon the table. These were not as fine as the one she had used before, obviously carved from animal bone and with some of their teeth missing.

Once more, Frodo responded trustingly to the confident fingers that tilted his head forward, hoping against hope that it would be Bell cutting his hair. He felt her run the comb across his neck and then blinked in surprise as first one and then the other of the old combs disappeared and he felt them tucked into his hair, holding the upper part out of the way. He swallowed hard as the feel of a similar touch flashed through his mind. Frodo tried to place the errant memory. 

Aunt Callendula had always sat a pudding basin on his head and cut around it. Frodo cringed at the memory and the teasing he used to get from the other lads. Aunt Rosemary just seemed to take up random chunks of hair and chop them off. It didn’t look too bad when it had grown out after a couple of weeks but for the first few days it stuck up on end in every direction which, when combined with his large blue eyes, gave him a permanently startled look. A small tear ran down Frodo’s cheek as the memory finally settled into place. Mamma’s combs had been delicately carved from dark wood but she had used them in this same way.

Bell pushed his head a little further forward and Frodo felt the blade of the scissors slip along the skin at his neck . . . heard the long quiet crunch . . . and felt the tiny wet feathers of liberated hair settle coldly upon the sensitive flesh of his nape. Using the corner of a towel, Bell brushed the leavings away, moving to deal similarly with the other half of the layer. The next layer was sectioned off and Frodo resisted the slight tension as Bell pulled it away from his scalp between her fingers and snipped. This process was repeated over and over as Bell’s gentle and comfortable fingers worked meticulously up his head, layer by layer. And all through the process, Frodo’s tears tracked silently down his cheeks. So long . . . so long since he had been the recipient of such tender attention.

“Well now, that’s the back done,” Bell announced. “Turn around and stand up to face me now, and I’ll do the sides and front, Frodo, lad.” Bell had gradually lost all the formality between servant and young master as she worked, so absorbed was she in the task. Frodo sniffed and tried to wipe his tears away before standing, hoping that Bell would see it as him disposing of a stray hair or two.

Standing, he was almost Bell’s height nowadays, and when he turned he found himself looking into her warm eyes. Frodo dropped his gaze when he saw concern settle there. He knew at once that he had not fooled her. “I’m sorry, Mistress Gamgee.”

“Whatever is the matter, lad. Did I tug too hard?”

“Oh, no,” Frodo rushed to reassure her. “I’m being silly, I’m afraid. It’s just . . . just . . . that you reminded me of . . . Mamma.” 

There was only a moment’s pause before he was enveloped in soft strong arms, his nose buried in the warm linen of Bell’s neckerchief, inhaling the motherly scents of soap and baked bread. Frodo let out a strangled little sob and leaned instinctively into the embrace, wrapping his arms around her ample waist. 

“And why should ye be sorry for rememberin’ yer Mamma?” Bell murmured as she rocked gently, in the instinctive way of all mothers. “Ye hold on to them memories, lad. Treasure them and don’t ever be ashamed when they come up on ye unawares. Them’s the memories that’ll help ye through the bad times.”

The words poured into Frodo’s mind like fresh spring rain on parched grass. “I . . . I didn’t want to embarrass you. I’m supposed to be a grown tween. Crying is for faunts, or so my Uncle Saradas said.”

Bell pushed him back gently and lifted his chin with a touch of her hand. “Well now, I don’t hold with young lads crying at every little thing. And I’m not so grand thinkin’ as yer Uncle Saradas, I reckon. But the loss of a mother . . . ‘tis not what I’d call a little thing and it don’t do no good to hold all that pain inside. Ye’ll find many an old gaffer dropping a tear or two, so don’t ye ever be ashamed of cryin’.” She blotted his face with a corner of her apron. “And ye won’t never embarrass me. I’ve raised bairns and seen enough of life to know all about tears.” Bell smiled softly and Frodo found himself smiling back. He took a deep breath, feeling as though a tight weskit had suddenly been undone, so that he could inhale the full glory of the air around him.

Bell smoothed down her apron and picked up the scissors once more. “Now. Let’s cut the rest of this hair. Mister Bilbo said he wanted to see them blue eyes of yours again and I can see why. I’m thinkin’ ye’ll have no problems finding dancin’ partners at Ferdy Brownside’s birthday party next week.”

Frodo blushed and his smile widened into a grin as Bell lifted her combs. 

“When I’ve finished this we’ll have a nice cup of tea and an apple tart, afore my brood start coming back and demanding their supper.” She lifted the scissors to his brow. “Close yer eyes so I don’t get any clippings in them.”

Frodo obeyed willingly and felt her begin to section off some hair from the crown as she continued. 

“And mayhap, when ye open them again the world will look a bit better.”


	8. Tea For Two

Bell sighed, setting down her sewing at a knock on the door. She had wanted to get this pillowcase finished before the rest of the family invaded once more. She signalled and it was a suddenly serious little Marigold Gamgee who ran to open the round yellow door, sticking her tousled head around the edge to peep through a six-inch gap.

Bilbo grinned despite the rain running down his neck and bent down to her level. “Is your Ma at home?”

“Ma . . . ith Mithter Bagginth from up the hill,” called the little girl as she abandoned the door and ran back to hide from the legendary gentlehobbit behind her mother’s ample skirts.

Bell smiled apologetically. “Come in, sir. I’ve been tryin’ to teach Mari how to answer the door proper but she still gets a bit shy.”

Marigold ducked her head, green eyes peeping up at Bilbo from beneath a mop of copper curls.

Bilbo only chuckled. As a confirmed bachelor, he used to find it difficult to relate to youngsters but it seemed to get easier as he got older. Maybe there was something to that old wives saying that with age you come into a second childhood. “That’s all right, Bell. She’ll get the hang of it with time.”

Stepping out of the wind and rain, he swished the mud off his feet in a waiting basin, wiped them on the old mat and closed the door behind him. “It started out promisingly enough but, my goodness, it’s turning into a wet spring this year.”

“It is that,” Bell acknowledged as she lifted the lid on the kettle and, satisfied of the level of its contents, popped it onto the hob to heat. “Ye’ll have a cup of tea, will ye? Sit yerself down by the fire.” She handed him a towel from the drying rack on the ceiling above the range. “Ye’ve surely not got so wet from just comin’ down the hill? What brings ye out in this?”

Bilbo ran the warm towel over his hair and used it to flick rain from the shoulders of his old tweed jacket. “I’m afraid so, and that would be lovely. Thank you,” he replied as he took one of the only two chairs in the room, either side of the big hearth, and leaned in toward the heat. Bell’s basket of sewing materials sat on the floor at the side of the other, along with a big and slightly threadbare cushion. “I was hoping to talk to Hamfast about my vegetable garden.” 

“He’s popped down into the village. I’m not sure when he’ll be back,” Bell replied. Then she set too trying to detach her youngest from her skirts. “Now, come on Mari,” she chided, disentangling little fingers. “Ye know Mister Bilbo. Ye’ve seen him many a time. Mind yer manners now and say hello proper.”

Marigold tried her most beseeching look but her mother only folded her hands at her ample waist and waited. So, straightening little shoulders, Marigold took the four steps required to bring her before their grey-haired guest. She dropped a rather wobbly curtsy and, in a pale pink voice that would have better suited a mouse, whispered, “Good day to you, Math . . . er . . . Mithter Bagginth.”

Smiling indulgently, to Bells surprise Bilbo arose and executed a perfect bow. “And a good day to you, Little Miss Marigold.”

Showing a missing top tooth, Marigold broke into an ecstatic smile that warmed Bilbo from head to foothair. Behind her daughter Bell, too, grinned widely and bobbed her head in thanks to the older gentlehobbit as she reclaimed the towel and deftly flipped it back over the drying rack above her head. 

Fishing a key from her always overstuffed apron pocket Bell used it to open the small corner cabinet, taking down two matching sets of cup, saucer and side plate. 

Marigold ran over to watch curiously as her mother rinsed and dried them. These were Ma’s best and she’d never actually seen them outside the cupboard, so it was a delightful surprise to discover that each had a little line of yellow daisy’s dancing about the rim. She followed her mother in awe as Bell laid them out upon the long kitchen table.

Bilbo waited in silence, watching his foot hair steam and aware that he was being accorded a great honour. He knew that Bell Gamgee had but four full place settings of these crocks (he had watched her parents gift them to the newlyweds) and that they were usually only produced upon special occasions. 

“It’s very quiet in here. Where are the other children today, Bell?” he called as she disappeared into the cool pantry. 

Her disembodied voice returned to him. “With all this rain, The Water’s burst its banks an’ one or two of the closer smials have flooded. They’ve gone down with Ham to help Widow Goodbody move her things. She’s going to stay with her sister ‘til everythin’ dries out.” She reappeared with the remains of an apple pie in its tin balanced on her arm, a pitcher of milk in one hand and a small jug of cream in the other. “Although when that’ll be I don’t care to think. There’s no sign of this rain lettin’ up.”

“Pansy Goodbody . . . my, my. I nearly offered for her once upon a time. How it flies,” Bilbo murmured. And then louder, “I remember warning Will Goodbody not to delve so close to the river when he started digging a smial for them there.”

“Aye. Will was a stubborn one. And there I’ll leave it for it don’t sit well with me to speak ill of the dead,” she added.

Before Bilbo could offer assistance Bell had expertly navigated the kitchen and deposited her load upon the table. “Ye’ll be doin’ me a favour to share this pie. There’s not enough left to feed all of us an’ ‘twill save arguments,” the mother commented as she collected cutlery. Here, she was not able to match the splendour of her crockery and so Bilbo watched her set out two dented teaspoons and three mismatched and slightly bent desert spoons. He filed this away for use when compiling his next birthday present list. He would present the Gamgees with a set of spoons. Not as fancy as Bilbo’s silver ones of course, or Bell would only lock them away with her best crocks. 

“I would be honoured to share the pie. Mistress Bell Gamgee is famous throughout Hobbiton and beyond for her shortcrust pastry.”

Bell blushed. “Well, it’s won a prize or too but I dare say ye tasted better in Tookborough last week. I hear The Thain keeps a good table at Great Smials.” She cut the pie in half, placing a large wedge on each plate and all but drowning them in rich, pale yellow cream. Bilbo felt his mouth fill with saliva. “An’ how is the new little master?” Bell asked as she placed the honey pot on the table.

Swallowing, Bilbo dragged his eyes away from the plates to follow Bell as she collected her huge brown teapot and the caddy. “He’s a lusty bairn with a mop of hair the colour of a harvest sun. If I didn’t know better I’d say he was a Brandybuck. But then, those families are so intertwined through the generations, that’s no great surprise.”

Taking up a padded cloth Bell lifted the now steaming kettle off the hob. Pouring a little water into the teapot, she swirled it for a moment and then tipped it into the sink. Bilbo watched the ritual comfortably. No matter what your rank in society the making of tea remained the same. Although Bilbo suspected that Lobelia Sackville-Baggins would have turned up her nose at Bell’s homely brown earthenware teapot with its chipped lid. 

“I expect his Ma and Da is happy, no matter what colour his hair. But birthing bairns can be a hard business. How’s his Ma?” 

Three large spoons of tea were carefully measured and water added then, tilting the lid into place, Bell set the brew firmly upon the table between their two place settings. Marigold had retired to the cushion by the hearth with her rag doll, but her eyes followed every move her mother made, particularly when she saw her pull out one of the everyday saucers and Marigold’s own little cup.

“Well, he’s her fourth so I understand the birthing was quicker than some. Eglantine looked well enough when we left and Paladin was strutting about like a prize stallion. After three lasses they’d all but given up on a son.”

Bell laughed as she beckoned her little daughter to the sink, where she rubbed at grubby fingers with a soapy cloth and then pointed to a place at the table by her mother’s setting. Bilbo had to hold back a smile at the speed with which the little faunt clambered onto the bench. 

Bell cut her serving of pie in half and slid it, and a goodly amount of cream, onto the lass’ dish. Marigolds eyes grew as wide as her saucer at the prospect of this unexpected bounty, and Bilbo noticed that she had to sit upon her hands to prevent herself from grabbing the spoon.

“Aye. Ham and me were happy to have the lads but I was hoping for a lass by the third. Daisy’s always been a bit of a handful but she’s a good one at heart and a big help to me now she’s older.” 

Both Bilbo and Bell now sat, side by side, upon one of the benches set either side of the long, white scrubbed table. Having visited many times, Bilbo felt enough at home to pour milk into all three cups whilst Bell was stirring the pot. He recognised several bits of Gamgee jumpers in the multicoloured knitted stripes of the cosy Bell wrestled onto the pot. When she poured the brew was a deep brown, and Bilbo mused that were he to remove the cup the tea was so strong it would probably stand up on its own. 

He was relieved to see Bell pour additional milk in her daughter’s cup. Stirring in a good spoonful of honey Bilbo pushed the pot aside to Bell, who added a very liberal dose to Marigolds and none to her own. The wealthier hobbit suspected that honey was rationed this week and Marigold had just been given her mother’s share. He also suspected that the slice of pie he was about to consume was originally scheduled for Bell’s husband. Bilbo felt guilty enough to determine to send Frodo down the hill later with a seed cake by way of replacement, but not so guilty that he was about to give up the chance to taste Bell Gamgee’s prizewinning apple pie. 

Anyway, the fresh although wet air would do the lad good. He’d been sitting indoors with his books for far too long of late. The Brandybucks may be ones for hiding indoors in bad weather but Baggins’ were made of sterner stuff. As it seemed to do more often of late, Bilbo’s mind drifted away to memories of dark woods and darker caves, mild aired valleys and sunsets viewed from high peaks.

Bell cleared her throat and lifted her spoon to take a surprisingly dainty bite of her pie, nodding for Marigold to follow suit.

“Do you hear much from Hamson and Halfred nowadays?” asked Bilbo as he came back to the here and now and took a larger mouthful of his own helping.

He was immediately anchored firmly in the present as he all but melted with pleasure. The shortcrust pastry was light and sweet but with just a hint of salt to prevent it from being cloying. And he hardly needed to chew, as it dissolved against the roof of his mouth. The tartness of the apple had been softened by a good helping of honey (which would explain the shortage on the table) and a liberal sprinkling of cinnamon. And those apples had been cooked just enough to soften but not so much that they had turned to mush. Thick cream rounded the whole thing off to absolute perfection and Bilbo had to make a conscious effort not to roll his eyes heavenward.

“Hamson sent word with his cousin, Anson, that he was settlin’ in. And Anson says as how his Da is pleased with his work,” Bell replied, seemingly unaware of her guest’s rapture.

Bilbo swallowed reluctantly but was too much of a gentlehobbit not to do so before speaking. “I’m pleased for you. Roping is a good trade and there are only so many gardeners a place like Hobbiton can support.” He smiled. “Goodness, but it doesn’t seem five minutes since the lad was Marigold’s age.” 

Bell paused to wipe a drop of cream from her daughter’s chin with a corner of her apron. “Mayhap. An’ tis one less mouth to feed here. Not that such was the reason for him leavin’,” she added hastily. “We manage well enough.”

“You and Ham are doing an excellent job with all your children.” Bilbo assured her. “And what of Halfred?”

“He’s settled in Oakbottom, over in the South Farthing. There’s no gardenin’ to be done there but he’s been taken on as farm hand tendin’ pipeweed. A friend of his was passing through here last month . . . Billy Marshbrown . . . an’ gave us word from him. Says he’s got his eye on a farmer’s lass.”

“He’s only just a tween,” Bilbo commented in surprise, before devouring the last mouthful.

“He’s near enough Master Frodo’s age and he’s always had a sensible head on his shoulders,” Bell replied as she set down her own spoon and gave Marigold’s mouth another swipe with her apron. “But lookin’ aint courtin’ and courtin’ aint weddin’. It’s good for him to cast about a bit at that age and when he’s a bit older I’ll not stand in his way when he finds the right lass. Neither will Hamfast if he listens to me.”

Bilbo smiled inwardly. It would be a foolish husband who ignored Bell’s opinion. Bilbo remembered the courtship of Bell Goodchild and Hamfast Gamgee with much amusement. Bell had made no secret of her intentions to marry Ham. Like a force of nature, she had swept the young gardener off his feet and Ham had been struggling to keep them under him ever since. That was six children ago and Bilbo could think of no kinder soul in all of Hobbiton. He’d come to rely upon her good hobbit sense many a time when dealing with Frodo over the past year. 

He took a good swallow of his tea, trying not to make a face as it seemed to coat his teeth and tongue. He was used to a subtler blend but the Gamgee’s could afford no such luxury and he had learned to tolerate it.

Marigold downed her milky tea in one long and slightly noisy string of swallows, finishing by running her tongue around her lips appreciatively. Her mother nodded indulgently. “Have ye finished?”

“Yeth, Ma.”

Bell waited, looking over the rim of her teacup at her youngest. “Then what do we say?” she prompted.

“Oh . . . Pleathe may I leave the table?”

“Yes, you may,” Bell replied formally and then with a smile, “Down ye get and go play, lass.” 

Clambering from the table, Marigold gathered up plate and cup and stretched up to place them carefully on the wooden draining board next to the sink. Then she returned to her cushion by the fire and began to undress her doll.

Bilbo sipped at his tea, watching the exchange. When had Bell Gamgee developed those lines about her eyes? And there were some grey glints among the brown in the curls of her hair. Once Marigold was settled he asked, “Is it me, or are folk marrying younger nowadays?”

Bell glanced at him sidelong around a sip of her own tea. “Some do . . . some don’t. An’ I think sometimes it just seems that way as the folks watchin’ gets older. Ye, most surely, know that.” As soon as the words were out Bell wanted to swallow them back again. Folks didn’t mention Bilbo Baggins’ age . . . not to his face at least.

For his part Bilbo only turned thoughtful. “I had not considered it that way,” he replied wistfully. He continued to drink his tea in the pregnant silence that followed and, a little flustered, Bell began to gather up the plates and fill a jug with hot water from the boiler to wash them.

She was relieved when the door burst open and a pile of wet and bedraggled hobbits stomped in. “Put the kettle on, Bell love. You’ve got four cold and wet Gamgees to warm up,” called Hamfast. Then he noticed Mr Bilbo at the table and snatched off his hat.

Hurriedly rinsing their feet, Daisy and May bustled their little brother, Sam into the dark interior of the smial to dry off and change clothes. 

“Well, good afternoon Mister Bilbo. Can I do ought for you?” asked Hamfast. Not so long ago Hamfast would have been surprised to see the master of Bag End sitting comfortably at his table, but since his nephew’s arrival at Bag End Bilbo had become almost a regular sight. Bringing up a tween was not a job usually undertaken by someone of Bilbo’s age and the Gamgees had become his encyclopaedia.

“Well, I came to discuss the spring planting for my garden but it can wait. And Bell and little Marigold here have entertained me royally. But now I think it’s time to see what Frodo’s been up to in my absence. Why don’t you pop around tomorrow and we’ll see what the rain will allow us to salvage of my plans for Bag End’s vegetable plot this year.”

Bell handed her husband a towel and he began to rub at his hair, sensing something in the air but unable to fathom what it could be. “I can come around later if you like, sir” he offered.

Bilbo stood, fastening his jacket and turning up his collar against the weather. “I won’t hear of it Ham. From what Bell’s been telling me you’ll have seen enough rain this day to last a while.” He smiled and made for the door. “How is Pansy Goodbody, by the way?”

Hamfast accepted a cup of tea and a peck on the cheek from his wife. “She’s settled in with her sister. We managed to save all her furniture and bits and Tom Cotton has put ‘em safe in one of his barns until the river goes down.”

“You’ll let me know if Pansy needs anything, won’t you? I remember her fondly.”

“Aye, sir. I will an’ thank you.” He moved to open the door for Mister Baggins.

“Goodbye and thank you for the tea, Bell.”

“Yer always welcome, Mister Bilbo,” answered Bell and Hamfast together.

Then Bilbo was gone, trotting back up the hill through the rain.

Ham dropped gratefully into his chair by the hearth, tea in hand, and bent to ruffle Marigold’s fiery locks. She gave him a broad grin before turning back to the important task of redressing her doll.

“What was that about?” he asked as Bell collected up her own and Bilbo’s cups and poured hot water into a basin in the sink.

“What was what about?” replied his wife a little too nonchalantly.

“Come on, lass. Out with it. You an’ Mr Bilbo surely haven’t had words?”

Bell turned about and leaned her hip against the sink. “Not really. We was talkin’ about the age folks get married and I just let slip that sometimes it only seems like folks get married younger because those watchin’ are gettin’ older.” She began to wipe her hands on her apron. “Then I suggested he’d understand that better than most.” Wincing, Bell looked at her husband. “I didn’t mean anythin’ by it. It just popped out an’ then I couldn’t take it back without makin’ it worse. He knows well what folks are sayin’ about him not looking his age.”

Ham set down his cup and opened his arms. “Come here, lass.” With a sigh of relief Bell came into his shelter, perching on his lap and leaning her head against his. 

“Never you mind. Mr Bilbo don’t bear grudges,” he murmured. Then he added, “Unless you’re called Sackville-Baggins.”

Bell chuckled. “Yer clothes are wet,” she commented matter-of-factly. “And ye smell of wet chickens.”

Ham leaned back in his chair and met his wife’s gaze with a twinkle. “Oh I do, do I? Then mayhap you’d better help me out of these smelly wet clothes afore I catch cold,” he suggested with a waggle of bushy brows.

Bell slipped from his lap, swatting away hands that would have recaptured her. “Hamfast Gamgee, tis the middle of the day and yer been dressin’ yerself this many a year. Go off with ye and I’ll start tea.”

Hamfast did as instructed, but was still grinning as he left the room.


	9. Harvest Reel

“Bilbo, should I wear the brown waistcoat or the red?” Frodo stood in Bilbo’s bedroom doorway, holding up a waistcoat in each hand.

His uncle paused in his own sartorial primping to study the garments. “The red one goes well with your black breeches but appears to be missing a button.”

Frodo examined the garment more closely. A clump of loose threads and a small tear was evident where a brass button should have been. He sighed. “The brown it is, then” he stated with a philosophical air as he disappeared back to his own room. 

Bilbo hoped it was in order to brush his hair, which at present seemed to be sticking up in all directions. He frowned for plain brown cord was not the most elegant for such a social event. Still, it was clean and appeared to be unscathed by Frodo’s activities. The lad seemed to have a knack for destroying clothes, whether by his extensive hiking or his writing. Bilbo supposed that at some point he would have to take the lad to his tailor.

Half an hour later Bilbo was standing in the hall when Frodo reappeared, with a covered basket over his arm. His uncle was pleased to note that the lad had brushed his hair, both that on his head and on his feet. He also smelled pleasantly of the scented oil Esmerelda had gifted him on his birthday last year. His black breeches were pressed, the white shirt was freshly laundered and the waistcoat had been sponged to revive it. In truth, Bilbo was rather impressed that Frodo had managed to do all that in such a short space of time.

Aware that he was being studied closely, Frodo grinned. “Will I do?”

“I do believe you will. Is that the cake?”

Frodo lifted the basket. “Yes. And the scones. I have added flour to our shopping list for tomorrow. We used the last on the cake.”

“Good lad. Come on then. Let’s go and join the revellers.” He led the way out of the smial and down the lane. “Remember what I told you about Hamfast’s home brew. Stick with the cider instead. I don’t want to have to carry you back up the hill.”

Walking in the dark, Frodo risked rolling his eyes. “I remember, Uncle. Cider only.”

Bilbo cleared his throat. “There will be lots of lasses there of your own age. Just you remember that you’re a Gentlehobbit and a Baggins. I don’t want to have to explain a tweenage wedding to your uncle Saradoc.”

Once more Frodo was grateful for the cover of darkness for he could feel the blush climbing his face. “Bilbo! I do know about the birds and the bees.”

Bilbo’s sigh was audible. “Good. Just make sure you remember them when you’ve had a half or two of cider.”

By now they had reached the bottom of the hill and the Party Field. The noise level was quite astonishing for everyone from miles around was celebrating the safe gathering of the harvest. Anyone who helped with the harvest, even in the most minor capacity, was welcome at the Harvest Reel. It was the event of the year.

Gaffers gathered around tables with beer and pipes to discuss the relative merits of this year’s harvest against those of previous years. Gammers sat in another corner, discussing the antics of absent family and neighbours. Matrons wore their best skirts and crammed themselves into bodices with straining laces. They were setting out the food on long trestle tables on the far side of the field, where awnings had been erected in case of rain.

A motley group of musicians were grabbing a few mouthfuls of cider while lines of lads and lasses were forming up for the next dance. Amongst all this faunts ran in squealing trails, like butterflies dancing in a summer sky. It was late for some and in a corner farthest from the band, beneath another awning, a small area had been set aside, spread with blankets and tended by some of the younger matrons. There some bairns could already be seen, curled in little hummocks of sleep and oblivious to the noise and clamour around them.

Suddenly, May Gamgee appeared before Frodo. Her sandy hair, with its usual riot of curls, was dressed with green ribbons and she wore a pretty bright green dress to match. She smiled shyly up at him. “Would you care to dance, Master Frodo? The next one’s to be the Cotters Line.” She gnawed at her bottom lip. “I used to dance with Halfred but he’s not able to get home this year.”

Bilbo knew that Halfred always made a point of partnering his younger sisters for at least one dance at the Reel. “Go on, Frodo. I’ll take the basket.”

Frodo handed it over and then bowed low to the young lass. “Miss May, would you do me the inestimable honour of accompanying me in the next dance?”

May’s brown eyes widened at such an invitation. Halfred had always just said, “Come on, lass.” She executed her very best curtsey and if it was a wee bit wobbly from lack of use Frodo made no comment. “I’d like that very much, sir.”

Frodo took her hand to help her rise and then tucked it into the crook of his arm to lead her to the end of one of the lines of dancers. Almost as though they had been waiting for that very last couple the band struck up and the dancers were off.

Bilbo watched as the lines of dancers drew together and parted, formed squares and cartwheels, skipped and pranced. Some of the less experienced made missteps and were pushed good-naturedly to the correct position by their companions but Frodo led his partner through the figures faultlessly. 

Bilbo smiled as he wondered how many dancing lessons the lad had endured at the hands of his Aunt Esmeralda. The torture was paying off now at least for many a lass was glancing his way as they endured the graceless leadings of their own partners. Hobbiton lasses were not backward at coming forward, as Bell Gamgee would say. No doubt Frodo would have a gaggle of lasses fluttering their lashes and swinging their skirts to gain his arm for the next set.

“Here you go, Mister Bilbo. I saw you comin’ down the hill so I got this ready for you.” Hamfast Gamgee held out a half pint tankard and Bilbo recognised the heady smell of Ham’s home brew. He accepted it with a grin, along with the expectation of a thick head tomorrow.

“Thank you, Ham. I’m just on my way to deliver my contribution to the ladies table.” He took a careful sip and licked the foam from his lips appreciatively. “My, but that’s a good brew. You’ve excelled yourself this year.”

Ham followed him as they threaded the edge of the dance square. “I was thinkin’ the same. I think it’s the hops. They was a good crop this year.”

Bilbo took another sip, making a mental note to pace himself or it would be Frodo carrying him up the hill at the end of the night. “Here we are, Buttercup.” He relinquished his basket to the gnarled hands of Buttercup Rumble who gave him a toothless grin.

“Thank ye, Mister Bilbo. I hope there’s some of yer scones in here.”

“There are indeed, and a coffee cake. There can never be too many cakes at a party.” He looked down at a gentle tug on his coat tail, to find little Marigold Gamgee staring up at him with sleepy eyes. “Can I have a danthe, Mithter Bilbo?” she asked artlessly.

Hamfast rolled his eyes and leaned in to whisper . . . at least it would have been a whisper but the noise level was such that he almost had to shout. “She should be sleepin’ but she says she won’t go ‘til she has a dance with you. I hope it’s not an imposition, sir.”

Bilbo smiled down at the faunt and handed off his beer to Hamfast. “Of course you may have a dance.” In a sudden movement, he swooped down to gather up Marigold, who squealed with delight as he began to prance about with her in his arms.

-0-

Two hours later the noise level had not reduced one jot, even though the children’s corner was now quite filled with little bundles of sleep. Bilbo mused that the volume was probably due to the amount of beer and cider which had been dispensed by the now rather tipsy Ted Hoarfoot. Beer and cider was provided free by the local farmers at this event but Ted undertook the job of unofficial bar tender every year, and was usually snoring under the table by the end of the night . . . at which point everyone just helped themselves anyway. 

Bilbo watched as a particularly lively reel began to wind down, noting that the dancers were growing more inventive as the night progressed and pleased to see that Frodo was still in control of his feet. He was dancing with Ruby Brockbank at present and the lass was taking every opportunity to flounce her skirts to give Frodo a glimpse of her knees. Bilbo smiled appreciatively for they were a very shapely pair of knees to be sure.

Something sharp suddenly jabbed him in the ribs and he glanced aside to find Bell Gamgee grinning at him. “Ye just get that twinkle out yer eye. Ruby Brockbank is young enough to be yer grandbairn.”

Bilbo snorted. “I’m old, not dead. And where have you been all evening?”

Bell settled upon the grass at his side with a relieved sigh. “I’ve been servin’ at table most of the night. Then there was nothin’ for it but Hamfast would have a dance. By the time we’d done that I had to put down May and Sam. Poor Sam was all but asleep on his feet but he would have it that he had to say goodnight to Master Frodo. And as yer lad’s been on the dance square most of the evenin’ that weren’t easy to manage.”

Bilbo nodded to where the dancers were starting to break up. His eyes followed Frodo assessingly as he escorted Ruby to the visit Ted Hoarfoot. “Well he’s off the square now,” he murmured.

Next to him Bell grinned into her cider mug. “He is that. Looks like Ruby’s takin’ him off somewhere quiet to drink their cider.”

When Bilbo made to rise she dragged him down again. “Leave ‘em be. Yer lad has a good head on his shoulders and he’s been doin’ too much dancin’ to be in his cups. He knows what’s what, and well enough to keep it in his breeches.”

Bilbo choked on his beer and Bell had to strike him firmly between the shoulders once or twice. When he could breathe again Bell continued.

“Ruby Brockbank shakes her skirts a lot but that’s as far as it goes. She’s a good lass at heart.” She took a thoughtful sip of her cider. “I expect it’s ‘cause she’s the only lass in the smial. Her Ma died a few years back and she’s been lookin’ after her Da and three older brothers ever since. I reckon getting’ the local lads a bit bothered now and again gives her a bit of power.”

Bell pointed out a taller, rather well-built hobbit threading his way through the crowds and into the shrubbery at the edge of the field in the general direction Ruby had taken Frodo. “That’s Ruby’s brother, Bartimus. Him and his brothers always keep an eye out fer Ruby.”

“Oh dear. Will Frodo be alright.”

“Bless you, yes. Bartimus wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s got his sister’s measure. He’ll probably just crash around a bit in the bushes and call out fer her.” Bell took another sip of her cider.

Sure enough, a few minutes later Ruby sashayed out from the bushes with her brother a few paces behind. Bilbo continued to worry until Frodo appeared a little later. The lad looked a little flushed but there were no signs of a black eye or a limp. In fact Frodo looked rather pleased with himself, which Bilbo found even more worrying. “You’re sure about Ruby?”

Bell laughed. “I’m sure. Although from the look of the lad Ruby’s given him a lesson or two in kissin’ and canoodlin’ he won’t forget in a hurry.” 

-0-

Bell stood, arching her back to stretch out the kinks, and lifted the basket of weeds she had just grubbed up from the tiny flower bed outside number three Bagshot Row.

“Good afternoon, Bell.” Bilbo Baggins leaned upon the garden wall.

“Hello there, Mister Bilbo. How are ye today?” She smiled warmly.

Bilbo grimaced. “I think I had one too many of Hamfast’s home brew last night but I think I’ll survive.”

Bell chuckled. “I reckon ye won’t be the only one sufferin’ today. Harvest Reel is a good excuse to let loose and more than a few do just that.” She spotted the basket by his feet. “Are ye comin’ back from market?”

“Yes. We just needed one or two bits. How is Daisy today? Every time I looked about last night she was dancing with one lad or another. I felt tired just watching her.”

Bell shook her head. “She’s been like a bear with a sore head all day. Between you and me I think she had a mite too much cider between dances but she’ll not admit it, and I couldn’t keep an eye on her every minute of the evenin’. Why don’t ye come in for a cup of tea? Shoppin’ is thirsty work and so is weedin’.”

Bilbo grinned. “I cannot disagree with that. I’d love a cup of tea. Thank you.” He followed Bell into the wonderfully cool interior of the Gamgee kitchen.

“Ham’s gone down to help clear off the last of the tables and awnin’s in the field so settle yerself down in his chair. It’s more comfortable than a bench. Sam went with him.” Bell shifted the big black kettle onto the hob and began to gather the accoutrements for tea.

Bilbo settled into the large cushioned seat with a sigh, the darker interior of the smial giving some relief to his sore eyes and pounding head. “So, where is Daisy?”

“She’s gone down to help Buttercup Rumble with her laundry. Butter don’t cope so well with scrubbin’ with her arthritis and May’s taken Marigold over the hill to play with Fern and Lilly Bracegirdle. I’ve got the place to myself.”

Bilbo chuckled. “I bet you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

“Oh, yes I do,” Bell asserted with a snort. “Whatever I like. What did Master Frodo make of the Reel? Ye missed last years.” She handed Bilbo a cup of strong tea and placed the honey within reach.

“I think Frodo enjoyed it very much. He seemed to have no shortage of dancing partners.”

Bell settled in her rocking chair at the other side of the hearth. “That’s no surprise. He’s a polite way with him and when ye add in those big blue eyes I don’t reckon there’s a lass wouldn’t like his attention. Did he say aught about Ruby Brownlock?”

“No, and I don’t think I want to ask. I have to trust Frodo at some point, but it’s hard not to fret after the run in I had with Saradoc Brandybuck over his falling from that tree last year. I think he may very well kill me if Frodo suddenly had to get wed!”

“Well, ye know my opinion on those folk over the river but I have to say that they seem to have done well by the lad when it comes to manners at least. And with ye teachin’ him common sense he’s doin’ alright. He’ll not get caught unless he’s ready to be and that’s not yet if I’m any judge.” Bell took a good swallow of her tea. “I wouldn’t worry too much about Ruby. She’s a nice enough lass but Master Frodo will be lookin’ fer more than a shapely leg. Ruby’s likely not the one for him.”

“I confess I wonder if he’ll find a lass in Hobbiton. I cannot see any of them discussing the finer points of elvish translation.”

“Well, now, I don’t know nothin’ about elvish and neither will they. But there’s many a lass has a good sensible head on her shoulders too. There’s more to runnin’ a house and raisin’ bairns than can be found in yer books, and I hope I don’t give no offense by sayin’ so.”

“No offence taken, Bell. I suppose you’re right and one scholar is enough for any smial. Maybe there’s something in the old adage that opposites attract.”

Bell looked about her cramped kitchen and her reply held a wistful note of envy. “I’ve always thought it a shame that Bag End’s never held a big family. There’s plenty of room for bairns to grow up in there.”

Bilbo took a good swallow of his cooling tea. “Perhaps Frodo will raise a big family there one day. I can remember having great fun as a faunt, sliding up and down that hall on a rug. Indeed, when Frodo visited as a faunt I showed him how to do that . . . much to his mother’s annoyance I may add.”

Bell pursed her lips. “Well, I don’t like to speak ill of the dead but Primula Brandybuck was a bit of a one fer the airs and graces. She kept that poor bairn on a tight rein.”

Bilbo shrugged. “She did like to keep him close. She and Drogo had almost given up on the idea of having bairns when Frodo arrived so he was particularly precious to them. I have to say that she wasn’t as fussy when they were in their own home. I think she was worried he would damage the furniture or something in Bag End. I’m afraid that fifty years ago I was much the same.”

“A lot of water under the bridge since then,” Bell commented, taking a sip of her tea.

“Indeed. There’s nothing like being chased by a group of giant spiders to bring home to one the relative unimportance of grandma’s doilies.” Bilbo smiled wistfully. “I do hope that one day Frodo does teach his own faunt slide down that hallway.”

Bell grinned. “With his winnin’ ways he’ll find the right lass and there’ll be plenty of Harvest Reel’s to find her before he comes of age.”


	10. Carpets and Cupboards

“Be sure and put them books back as ye found ‘em, Daisy. Mr Bilbo won’t thank ye for losing one if he’s in the middle of readin’ it.” Bell Gamgee swiped her damp duster along the bedroom mantelpiece, tutting as she turned it over to examine it, before rearranging to a clean bit to make another pass.

Her daughter scowled but did as instructed; carefully replacing the pile she had dumped on the counterpane in order to polish the bedside cabinet. Her mother nodded approval as she stepped over to collect the tin of beeswax and polishing cloth. “Ye’ve done a good job there, lass. I can see my face in that. Mind ye, buffing aint a chore when furniture’s got as many layers of polish as Mr Bilbo’s. He told me some of these pieces came with his Ma from Great Smials in Tookborough.”

Daisy beamed at the praise, then scowled again as she realised there was still the chair in the corner to be tackled. She hated chairs. All those stretcher thingies between the legs at the bottom seemed to be there for the sole purpose of collecting dust. Her Da had once explained patiently that they were there to stop the chair legs splaying when a body sat on them. But Daisy was of the opinion that they had been invented just to make her life difficult. With a huff she dropped to her knees and set too with the dusting cloth.

The room had smelled of books and dust, pipe weed and Mr Bilbo’s cologne when they entered an hour before. Now the tickling smell of dust had been replaced with the sweet clean scent of beeswax and lavender polish. They were nearly finished in here and then they were to move on to Master Frodo’s room. Daisy was curious to find out what it looked like. He’d come up from Buckland after all. And they were odd down there. She wondered if he had any boots because she’d heard tales that folks down there wore them. Daisy had never seen boots.

Her musings were interrupted by the slap of running feet and her youngest brother, Sam, burst into the room, clutching Mr Bilbo’s chamber pot in both hands. He came to a skidding halt at a glare from his Ma.

“Samwise Gamgee, what did I tell ye about runnin’ with Mr Bilbo’s things?”

Sam hung his head, although having done so he suddenly found himself fascinated anew by the ring of blue dragons, chasing each other about the rim of the pot. He pulled himself back swiftly enough to mumble an apology. “Sorry Ma.” And he could sense, rather than hear, his older sister sniggering in the corner.

Having issued her censure, however, Bell nodded. “Let me see it then, lad. Not that it needed much cleanin’. That’s one thing Mr Bilbo is very clear about. Cleans ‘em out himself every morning’. There’s not many posh folks as does that.”

Sam filed away that bit of information as he held up the pot proudly for inspection. His Da had given him his very own workspace outside the back door, with buckets of water, cloths and cleaning stuffs. And there he sat, cross-legged, cleaning whatever Ma or Daisy brought him. Mr Bilbo’s chamber pot had already been sparkling but Ma had insisted that it was better to clean everything, just in case. “In case of what?” he had wondered. But Sam had set too, with a little bit of salt on a damp cloth first. Then white vinegar and water. He had grown quite fond of the blue dragons by the time he had rinsed and polished with a dry cloth . . . a scrap of his Ma’s old petticoat.

Sam held his breath as Bell’s eyes narrowed. She made great show of turning the pot this way and that in the light from the open window and running her fingers around the inside. After what seemed an age to her little son, Bell handed it back with a smile. “Well done. Put it back now.”

Sam made to slide it under the bed but his Ma tutted. “No lad. In that cupboard under the washstand.” His eyes widened at the idea that there could be a piece of furniture specially made to house a po. Crossing to the corner washstand Sam opened the door to discover that, sure enough, it was the perfect size. It was with some sense of reverence that he replaced the po and closed the door; standing to stare for a moment. His own po was brown earthenware, had a chip in the rim and was kept under the bed. Never in his wildest imaginings had he considered that there would be a piece of furniture specifically made to house such an item. He had an auntie who always called hers a “guzunder” which seemed to Sam an eminently practical name for an item that goes under the bed. Did Mister Bilbo call his a “guzinto”?

His gaze travelled up the stand to take in the fine white marble top, the little porcelain dish with its lemon scented soap, and the matching dragon laced wash basin and jug. To one side was a rail, over which was draped the finest white towel he had ever seen. Oh, it wasn’t the whiteness that took him. His Ma had the whitest whites in Hobbiton in his opinion. It was the soft fluffy look of it. Checking his ma wasn’t watching; Sam wiped a hand on his breaches and reached out a finger to stroke it. Yes. It was as soft as it looked and he crushed a handful experimentally. As soon as he released it the fluffy material sprung open with not a crease left behind. The towels they used at home were of thickly woven linen with not a “fluff” in sight.

With a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure Ma had not seen him, Sam skipped from the room to return to his workplace and Master Frodo’s po. Bell only smiled as she continued to buff polish on the mantelpiece with a fresh rag.

Bell and Daisy worked silently for some minutes more, passing cloths and polish tin between them in the easy rhythm of those much used to the task. As they were reaching the end of their toil there was a sound of loud puffing. “Watch out for them cloakpegs,” announced the arrival of Hamfast and Cousin Holman. Sure enough, the two appeared in the doorway with one of Mr Bilbo’s best rugs rolled up on their shoulders.

“In front of the hearth, if ye please,” instructed Bell as she stepped out of the way. 

“I don’t hold with all these carpets. A good earth floor, or wood, is good enough for most folk,” announced Holman as they dropped the offending item and began to unroll it.

“Other way round,” instructed Bell and the two rolled eyes at each other as they took opposing corners and spun it about. 

“Well, they do hold a lot of dust it seems,” replied Da as they straightened it. His wife was not about to argue that point. Beating carpets was a hot and dirty job and she sighed as she considered the bath she was going to have to heat water for later. Ham’s face was grey with dust, except where perspiration had tracked clean lines on his flushed forehead. And there were deep circles of sweat under the arms on both hobbit’s shirts. Looking at them Bell decided she’d better let Holman share the bath, before sending him home to his wife, Daffy. Mayhap she should also send him home with a fresh loaf in apology for the laundering of that shirt.

Daisy was replacing the last of the cleaning stuffs in Ma’s pretty storage box. “They’re nice ‘neath your toes, though,” she announced as she ran an appreciative foot across the brightly coloured pile.

Her father scowled. “Don’t you go gettin’ ideas, my lass. Folks like us can’t afford carpets.” Daisy ducked her head, lips pursed mutinously, but did not dare to contradict her Da. If all else failed, mayhap she could marry someone with a carpet. Daisy considered for a moment more. If it came down to carpet or love what would she choose?

Bell changed the subject. “Have ye more to tackle?”

Ham and Holman turned to leave. “Just the one, thank goodness; the one for Master Frodo’s room. You said as how you were doin’ that one last,” her husband called over his shoulder. 

“I hope it rains later,” Holman could be heard to comment as they disappeared down the hallway. “Or that vegetable plot will have to be watered tomorrow. Aint never seen a grey cabbage afore.” 

Ham’s voice was fading as he replied. “Aye, well. Tis better a grey garden than grey windows if we’d done it at the front of the smial. I don’t fancy cleaning all that glass again.”

“An’ that’s another thing. All them windows in a smial aint natural,” was the last comment Bell and Daisy heard.

Bell stood in the middle of the room and turned a slow circle. “I do think we’ve finally finished in here. Now there’s just Master Frodo’s room and we’re done. An’ a good job too with the masters due back from Buckland tomorrow.” She stepped aside to close the window and tweak a curtain. It was hard work, but Bell quite enjoyed spring cleaning. But it made it much easier when Bag End was empty and Bilbo and Frodo had obliged her by visiting relatives for a week.

Daisy picked up the cleaning box, eager to see inside Master Frodo’s room at last but her Ma reached to snag it from her grasp.

“I can fettle the last room alone. Ye get home and set the copper boiling. Yer Da and Uncle will need a bath when they’re finished or all we’ll be doin’ is movin’ Mr Bilbo’s muck over to our smial instead.”

Daisy pouted. “But Ma. We could do it a lot faster with two and still have time to boil the copper,” she wheedled. “An’ I aint never seen inside Master Frodo’s room since he moved in.”

Bell drew her lips into a thin line. “Aye. I know. An’ t’aint right for a maid to see inside a lad’s bedroom. So ye be setting off back now.”

“But I’ve seen my brother’s room afore,” the lass argued. 

Her Ma only pointed at the doorway. “I know yer game, my girl. Yer settin’ yer sights too high an’ tis time ye came down from the clouds and dug yer feet in the good soil where they belong. Ye could do worse than Will Brownfoot. He’s comin’ courtin’ tomorrow, aint he?” 

Daisy could scarce prevent her feet stomping as she left the room and Bell allowed herself a quiet laugh as she heard her daughters muttered comment from the front door.

“Aye. But I’m guessin’ he’s no carpets and no cupboard for his po neither.”


	11. Marriage and Mathoms

It was full dark as Hamfast reached the lane that wound about the hill to Bagshot Row. Candles burned in a couple of the windows of Bag End and Bilbo could be glimpsed at his desk in the study. The rest of the hill was dark, the occupants having followed the old rule of going to bed at sundown and getting up at sunrise. Candles and oil cost money and firesides were all well and good but gave only light enough to chat by. There was yet one light on Bagshot Row, however. A small flickering candle glowed welcome in the window of the Gamgee home. The Gaffer smiled, knowing that Bell would have water heated for his wash, a bowl of stew and fresh baked bread ready for the table . . . and a warm hug.

He let himself in, quietly, aware that all the young ones would be abed by now and was a little surprised when Bell jumped up from her chair by the fire and spun towards the sink, a pool of pale fabric landing at her feet. She cleared her throat before speaking. 

“Did ye get Widow Bolger’s garden cleared of weeds, then?”

Curious, Hamfast rounded the large, scrubbed table and joined his wife at the sink, where she was filling a basin with warm water from a jug and laying out a towel. When her husband turned her about Bell realised that standing facing the light of the fire had not been a good idea. Its warm flicker was easily enough for her husband to see the glistening tracks of tears on her cheeks and she looked down at her apron, drying her hands.

“What’s the matter, Bell? Is somethin’ wrong with one of the young uns?”

Bell looked up at once, her eyes wide. “Oh, no, love. All the bairns are tucked up warm in their beds. Though Daisy had a bit of a spit when it came her turn. That lass is getting far too sassy. She wanted to wear my weddin’ dress to Molly Brockbucks birthday party. My weddin’ dress no less! As if her best yellow weren’t good enough.”

Hamfast grunted in understanding. Daisy was of an age where she liked to think she was all grown up but was still capable of acting like a five-year-old when she didn’t get things all her own way. He turned to the sink and Bell helped him out of his jacket. 

“Thought you’d been savin’ that for her to wear on her weddin’ day,” he murmured as he rolled up his shirt sleeves and picked up the sliver of soap on the drainer, dipping his hands in the water and watching it turn cloudy with the muck. He began scouring his hands, working up a good lather with the soap. “Just say the word, Bell, and she’ll learn she’s not too grown for a good old fashioned spankin’ if she’s playin’ you up.”

Bell returned to the fire, uncovering a pan of coney stew and stirring it, before bending to recover the large heap of fabric on the floor and lay it lovingly upon her chair.

“Don’t fret. I’ve got her measure.”

Hamfast bent to scrub at his face, making sure to attack his ears and the back of his neck. “What’s troubling you then? It takes a lot to get my Bell down.”

Settling on one of the benches flanking the table, Bell stared at the pale cloth on her chair. “It’s a long time since I’ve looked on that dress and I fancied havin’ just a peep. Just to remember,” she replied, wistfully.

Hamfast turned back to her, drying his neck on the clean but rough towel, noting that it had been warming before the fire for him. He smiled. “It was a grand day, wasn’t it? And you were a stunner . . . still are.” He came to sit beside her and Bell leaned into his shoulder as he wrapped a beefy arm about her. “I bet you’d still be a beauty in all that pale green. Like a fresh spring mornin’ you looked.”

Bell batted at his hand, where it was making far too free with her bodice laces. “I think I’d have to let it out a bit, love,” she chuckled. “I’ve had too many bairns since then. And I don’t think anyone could have ever called me a beauty.”

Hamfast continued to try to work his fingers inside Bells bodice. “Oh, you were always a nice handful, lass and you will ever be a beauty in my eyes. ‘Tis proper for a hobbit to be well rounded. And I can’t say as how I didn’t enjoy helpin’ ye fill out.”

Bell pushed him away in mock horror. “Ham Gamgee! Whatever would we say if one of the children came in? Keep yer hands . . . and yer tongue . . . still.” The words were said with a smile but there was a flatness to them that grated on her husband. Bell began to ladle stew into a large basin, setting it on the table at his side. “Anyway . . . there’s nobody goin’ to wear that dress any more. Tis ruined.” Her voice was level but Hamfast could see her hand shaking as she laid a plate of bread next to the stew.

He grabbed her wrist lightly to stop her turning away and his voice was gruff with concern. “What do you mean . . . ruined?”

Bell reached across and pulled the pile of fabric into her lap as she sat at his side once more holding up what was, now that he looked at it more closely, a sleeve made of shimmering fabric. It was difficult to see in the poor light but Ham knew that sunlight would show it to be the pale green of frosted grass on an early spring morning. The firelight glimmered through it.

“I don’t remember it havin’ lace on the sleeve . . . although I do remember a lot o’ lace,” he added with a wink.

“The lace was on the petticoat, love,” Bell chided. “And this aint lace.” She swallowed. “Tis moths.”

“Moths?” So this was what had been bothering her. Well, he couldn’t blame her. The material had been bought in Michel Delving by Bell’s family, and it had been the talk of the Shire for a long time after the wedding. “But I thought you had it all bundled up in paper and tucked away.” Hamfast slipped his arm about his wife’s waist again and she melted into his shoulder, silent tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Seems the paper got torn and that’s how they got in. Oh love . . . tis ruined. I don’t reckon there’s enough decent material left to even make Daisy a bodice. I knew I was never goin’ to get into it again but I thought I could at least alter it and pass it down to our lass. Seems it’s not to be.”

“I’m sorry, Bell love. Mayhap that dress was only meant to be seen once . . . on the comeliest lass in the Shire.”

Hamfast hugged her close as he heard Bell’s soft answering snort. “Yer a soft old fool, but I love ye for it.” She wiped her eyes on her apron and wriggled out of his grasp. “Come on and eat yer supper, afore it gets cold.” 

Shaking out the remnants of the dress she held it up critically in the firelight . . . the practical mother once more, now that she had shed her tears. “There’s a piece here on the skirt that don’t look too bad. Mayhap I could make a pillowslip from it.” 

Hamfast chuckled. “The Gamgees with silk pillow-slips. We’d be the talk of the Shire.” He turned around on the bench and tucked into his stew while Bell folded the dress thoughtfully and laid it back upon her chair. 

Maybe green silk was not quite proper for pillow-slips after all. She wouldn’t want folk to think that the Gamgees had ideas above their station.

 

0o0

 

Bell handed Daisy the last of the cups to be dried and turned to the pantry, producing one of her grandma’s best plates, covered with a piece of muslin. Sam licked his lips as he saw two large pieces of his Ma’s birthday cake sitting proudly beneath the cloth. His mother bent to pinch his cheek.

“Ye can put yer eyes back in yer head, Samwise. That cake is for Mister Bilbo and young Master Frodo. You’ve had yer piece. In fact, as I recollect, ye’ve had two pieces.”

“Aye . . . but it was a grand birthday cake.” Sam’s eyes stayed firmly fixed upon the delicacy despite his mother’s warning . . . although he would never actually have dared to take a piece. It was Ma’s cake and her birthday present to them all. And Bell Gamgee’s cakes were never mathoms.

Bell took off her apron, laying it on the table with the plate and then smoothing back the odd brown curl that had strayed out of her carefully applied combs. “It was, wasn’t it? And all the better for having my helper to mix it for me.”

Sam sat straighter on the bench and Daisy snorted. “He only creamed the powdered sugar and butter. Takes more than that to back a cake,” came her haughty comment.

Before her younger brother could step in to defend himself his mother saved him the effort. “A task taken on willin’ is better than a task done because twas ordered and makes for lighter bakin’ my lass. Mayhap if ye put a little more love into yer cakes they’d come out a might less sad.”

Sam resisted the temptation to stick his tongue out at his sister but Daisy sniffed anyway. She continued putting away the clean crockery, however, and Sam rested his small chin upon his hands on the table, still staring at the wedges of cake shrouded beneath their fine muslin canopy. Recognising his mood his Da seated himself on the bench at the other side of the table. “Out with it, lad. Somethin’s been gnawin’ at you all through the party.”

Sam’s hazel eyes met those deep, earth brown eyes of his Da. “I still don’t know why Master Frodo and Mr Bilbo couldn’t be invited to Ma’s party. The whole of Bagshot Row was here.”

The Gaffer took the small hand of his youngest son in his, seeing already the ingrained dirt that came from working with trowel and plant, the calluses on palms from hours of turning earth for the autumn vegetable planting.

“It wouldn’t be proper havin’ a gentlehobbit mixing social with us common folk.”

Sam shook his head in confusion. “But Mr Bilbo and Master Frodo are often poppin’ over for a chat and I’ve had second breakfast up at Bag End once or twice.”

Hamfast stole a sidelong look at his wife as she reappeared from their bedroom, with two small parcels wrapped in brown paper and yellow ribbon that she set on the table with the cake.

Ham’s face was sad but firm set. “There’s a world of difference between sharin’ a cup of tea and a slice o’ bread and butter with friends and introducin’ those high livin’ friends to the rest of your family and expectin’ everyone to get on. Highborn folks like Mr Bilbo and the Young Master don’t get free and easy with the likes of their servants. It’s not proper.”

Sam grimaced. There was that phrase that all the grown ups kept using so freely. “Proper.” He glanced up at his Da. “Who makes up their mind as to what’s proper and what’s not?”

His question drew a short silence and then his Da gave another well-used answer. “Hobbits decide . . . and they decide by what’s always been proper afore. It’s tradition. Tradition allows a chap to know exactly where he is in the grand plan and where he’s going. And that’s what’s kept the Shire going all these years. Things just are . . . as they always were and they always will be.”

A tear trickled down Sam’s cheek as he picked at a bit of icing that had smeared upon his sleeve. His Ma came to stand behind him and kiss his ear. “Well. We couldn’t invite them to the party but we can take a bit of the party to them. Come on Sam. Ye can carry the cake.”

Sam lifted the cake with all the care he would have given a bowl full of his best agate marbles. At a glare from her mother, Daisy opened the door to allow them egress, her fingers still stroking the long pale green silk sash that had been her mother’s present to her. It would look very fine indeed about the waist of her best yellow dress at Molly’s party next week. She closed the door indolently behind them as the two made their way up the hill in golden evening light.

Bell paused to comb her fingers through Sam’s wayward hair before knocking lightly upon the bright green door of Bag End. It was a delighted Frodo who admitted them to the grandly appointed hallway.

“Happy Birthday, Mistress Gamgee. And many more of them.” The Young Master smiled. It seemed that the dark hall was washed with the warm sunshine of those eyes and then the spell was broken as Frodo turned to his uncle, just entering from the study.

“Happy Birthday, Bell. I’ll not ask which one it is this year, for I know ladies are apt to get cagey about such things after a certain age.” He winked and turned towards the parlour, waving them through. “Come in and sit down while Frodo makes some tea, for if my eyes do not deceive me there is cake beneath that cover. And if it’s cake made by the famous Bell Gamgee it needs eating quickly, before it floats away.”

“Get on with ye!” Bell chided, although Sam noticed that she walked a little taller at the compliment. “I’m sorry ye couldn’t come to the family party but I didn’t think it right that ye should be forgotten. I hope as how I’m not bein’ too forward in sayin’ this, but ye and the Young Master have become like family to me and mine, even if we was brought up different. And I hope ye don’t take no offence in that.”

Bilbo only smiled as Frodo re-appeared with a tray, on which could be seen all the accoutrements for tea, along with a knife to cut the cake, and four plates to put it on. “I take no offence, Bell. In fact, I take it as an honour . . . as I am sure Frodo does.” 

Frodo’s grin widened. “I can’t think of a family that I’d rather be adopted into.”

Bilbo splashed a few drops of tea into one of the saucers but quickly recovered himself, as Frodo turned two giant pieces of cake into four reasonably sized pieces and laid them before everyone. For several minutes all conversation ceased as they got on with the important job of eating and drinking.

With a satisfied sigh, Bilbo leaned back in his chair and took a good swallow of his tea. “I was right, Bell. That truly was a cake worthy of an elven baker.”

“It certainly was, Mistress Gamgee. Thank you very much for thinking of us.”

Bell blushed. Had the compliment been offered in her own kitchen she would have accepted it willingly enough but sitting in this grand room, with a carpet beneath her toes, she felt a bit embarrassed. Mister Baggins was, after all, a wealthy and much travelled gentlehobbit who had doubtless tasted many a fine cake in his day. 

“It weren’t as grand as ye’re probably used to but I’m not much for fancy cookin’. A good plain sponge cake with a bit of butter-cream and raspberry jam is all I’m up to. But I thank ye for the compliment.”

She reached into the pocket of her best frock and brought out two small parcels, which she set upon the table before her hosts. Although they were only wrapped in brown paper, Bell had managed to find some ribbon in her sewing box so each was neatly tied with a yellow bow.

“What’s this? Birthday presents for us? Bell, you shouldn’t have,” Bilbo exclaimed, although he picked up the little package and began to untie the bow. From out the paper fell a large pale green silk handkerchief, one corner neatly embroidered with “BB”. Frodo’s package revealed a similar handkerchief, embroidered with “FB”. Both Baggins smiled broadly.

“Thank you, Mistress Gamgee. This will look very well in the breast pocket of my green suit,” Frodo assured her, fingering the delicate fabric.

Bilbo bent to examine his, well pleased with the fine needlework. There was something familiar about it though. Bell watched as his brow furrowed in concentration, trying to drag a memory to the fore. Bilbo Baggins was noted for his elegant waistcoats and he could spot an expensive fabric from quite a distance. This was a good silk and must have cost Bell a pretty penny. Suddenly, his face cleared.

“Why this is the same fabric your wedding dress was made of. I remember it well.”

Ever willing to help and praise his Ma’s cleverness, Sam cleared up the mystery. “That’s because it’s made from Ma’s dress, Sir. She was keepin’ it but the moths got at it and she’s used the bits to make all sorts of pretty presents.”

Frodo watched as Bell Gamgee’s normally affable face stiffened. She was proud of having been able to make use of the undamaged bits of fabric, but she was not particularly happy about such gentlehobbits knowing that their fine silk handkerchiefs were made from one of her old dresses.

Sensing the atmosphere at once, Sam shuffled in his chair and began to make a careful study of his fingers. The youngster was not quite sure what he had said wrong, but he was painfully aware that he had caused his mother some distress and he wished that the floor would open up and swallow him whole. Frodo glanced at him in sympathy.

“If that is the case, then this gift is to be doubly precious,” announced Bilbo, before the silence grew too solid. “Every time I see this I will be reminded of how grand you looked that day.”

Frodo’s quiet voice followed swift on his uncle’s. “And I am honoured that you would think to give me a piece of such a treasured possession.”

The air cleared at once and Bell smiled in relief. “I was hopin’ ye’d like the material, Sirs. Ye’ve both been good to me and mine and I wanted to let ye know how much I appreciate that.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Bilbo replied, folding the handkerchief carefully and handing back the yellow ribbon. Bell made to refuse but Bilbo put it in her palm and Frodo followed suit. “A present from us to Daisy. They’ll look well in those pretty brown curls.”

Bell pushed them into her pocket. “I’ll see she gets them, and the message. Now we must be away. My Marigold needs bathin’ afore I try and put her to bed. Ye should see the mess she got herself into with that cake.”

She rose and Bilbo escorted her to the door, Sam following meekly and silently on her heels. The usual pleasantries were exchanged and then Sam and Bell were walking back down the hill. Before they were out of sight of Bag End Sam was crying silently and once into the lane, a concerned Bell drew him to the grass verge and sat down.

“What ever is the matter, Sam, love?” His mother pulled a hanky out of her pocket and began to wipe at his face.

“I’m sorry, Ma,” the little voice wailed. “I didn’t think afore I spoke. Da’s always tellin’ me to do that and I forgot.”

Bell gathered her little lad into her lap and tucked his head beneath her chin. “Oh, Sam love. Ye didn’t say nothin’ wrong. Ye told the truth and ye should never be ashamed of that. If anyone should be sorry tis me. Pride has its place but too much of it can be a bad thing and I let it get the better of me.” As she spoke she rocked him gently, kissing his curls until the sobs finally subsided. Bell tilted his face up and was not surprised to see sleepy hazel eyes.

“I’m sorry I hurt ye, lad. Come on. Let’s get home. We’ve both had a long and busy day.” She set her youngest son on his feet and stood, making sure to take his hand as they walked back to the smial.

Things were quiet when they entered the kitchen for it was, indeed, late and even the older children were abed. It may have been a birthday celebration today but tomorrow would be another workday and even Marigold had been put to bed by Daisy. If Hamfast noticed that his son had been crying, a quick shake of the head from his wife told him to keep silent about it, and Bell set too warming some milk for Sam while the lad put on his nightshirt. 

When he was settled at the table with a mug, Bell disappeared for a moment. Returning, she laid a small square of pale green silk before her son and Sam glanced up in surprise. He lowered his mug and wiped his palms upon his shirt before touching the fine thing. Open, it revealed itself to be another handkerchief, but this time with “SG” embroidered in one corner.

“I was goin’ to keep it until ye were older but I think ye know how to look after it.”

Tears trickled down Sam’s face again, but he was smiling as he used his sleeve to dry his eyes. Then he folded his precious handkerchief carefully on Ma’s spotless kitchen table.


	12. Rising

Frodo came to an abrupt halt at the closed door to the Gamgee’s smial. Closed? On a hot summer’s day? He knocked timidly, wondering if something could be amiss, and was somewhat relieved when he heard Bell’s cheery, “Come in, whoever ye be.” On opening the door however he took an involuntary step back, hit by a wave of warm, damp air, redolent with yeast.

“Come in, Young Master and shut the door if ye please. I’m sorry I couldn’t come to the door but I’m all over flour.” Bell waved her plump arms at him with a broad smile. She was indeed, all over flour. In fact it seemed to Frodo that everything was all over flour.

Silky white powder coated the large kitchen table and dusted the floor about and on Bell’s feet, turning her foothair grey. Broad splashes of it adorned her apron and arms and she even had a dab on the end of her nose. When Frodo breathed in he noticed that it hung in the air, making his nose itch and catching in his throat. 

His awe must have registered on his face for Mistress Gamgee chuckled. “Now ye know why Mister Bilbo don’t bake bread in the summer. I’ve nearly got yer order done. Just a couple of loaves finishin’ in the oven.”

“Thank you, Mistress Gamgee.” Frodo dabbed at his upper lip surreptitiously, trying to wipe away the perspiration that had suddenly sprung out there and holding his arms a little away from his body. It didn’t help. He could feel damp patches developing under his armpits already. He could see that Bell herself was not immune to the temperature, her bodice completely soaked beneath its covering apron and tendrils of hair plastered to her brow.

Bell obviously noticed his small action and took pity on him. “Ye can come back a bit later if ye want. ‘Tis not a day to be sittin’ in a hot kitchen. Them loaves will be another quarter hour or so.”

Frodo considered the golden sun streaming through the room’s round windows. He had been sitting in the garden, reading, when Bilbo had sent him off to the Gamgee’s for their bread. As he suspected his uncle knew he would, Frodo had jumped at the chance to visit the family. Bag End was his home now and felt it. And Bilbo was dear. But the bustling Gamgee smial reminded him of Brandy Hall and Bell, herself, of his own Mama so he never turned down a chance to call.

His gaze returned to the table where, on a collection of mismatched wire trays, assorted breads steamed gently through their golden tops. Frodo swallowed a mouthful of saliva and dragged his eyes away from the display.

“I can wait. I was reading and by the time I’ve gone to my book and settled back into the story it will be time to come back anyway.”

Bell followed his gaze and swallowed a smile as she hoisted a lump of sticky dough out of the large stoneware basin and thumped it down on a circle of flour on the table, sending up a cloud of dust that made Frodo pinch his nose to stop a sneeze.

“Ye’d best sit down, then. But if ye want to keep that fancy weskit clean ye’d best sit at yonder end.” She motioned to the end farthest from her immediate work area and, perhaps not entirely coincidentally, far away from the cooling bread.

Frodo complied, pushing his shirtsleeves up a little further as he climbed over the bench and settled down. The sight and smell of all that fresh bread was a torture to his tweenage stomach and he hoped Bell could not hear it rumbling from way over there. From the twinkle in her green eyes however, he suspected she could.

For a few minutes there was silence in the room, apart from the slide of the dough as Bell kneaded and turned it about on her table. With each pull and knuckled tuck Frodo could feel the table shake beneath his elbows and he placed his chin in his hands, mesmerised by the soothing rhythm of it. 

When the dough was no longer sticky but round and elastic, a smooth ball, Bell gathered it up in both hands and dropped it into another basin. Then she snagged a muslin cloth from a waiting pile and covered it, before setting it aside to rise. When she returned she had another bowl with her and paused to sprinkle a generous layer of floor before upturning the basin and dumping the huge lump of dough out onto the table.

Another dusting of flour on top and she began her kneading again, completely absorbed in her work and pausing only to sprinkle a little more flour. Pull, tuck and turn, pull, tuck and turn, pull, tuck and turn.

Frodo settled deeper into his elbows, smiling gently. He and Bell had settled into an easy relationship that didn’t demand that she entertain the young master of the hill. And Frodo had made himself a welcome addition to her motherly circle. 

Bell dropped the dough back into its bowl and glanced up once more, as though suddenly remembering that she had a guest. “I’m sorry ‘tis so warm in here. But a stray drought can kill the yeast and flatten the bread.” She called out to the darkened entrance to the rest of the smial. “Daisy.”

From somewhere in the depths of the hill Frodo noticed for the first time the muffled sounds of flapping and suspected that the eldest Gamgee lass was making beds. The sounds continued and Frodo held his breath. Daisy would not be pleased at any interruption, particularly from her mother. Interruptions from mother usually meant another task in the offing. But Bell was mistress here.

“Daisy Gamgee. I know ye can hear me . . . Daisy!”

Frodo shrank at her last call; glad that the only person he had ever heard Bell use that sharp tone with was Daisy.

Daisy appeared, her hair mussed and hands planted defiantly on hips. “I’ve not finished the beds yet, Ma,” she got in quickly, before she took in Frodo’s presence with a flick of her eyes, and the tween found he didn’t like the sudden gleam there.

“Them beds should have been long done, girl. But ye can finish them in a bit. We’ve company. Go fetch a cup of cold water from the crock in the pantry.”

Daisy sniffed and made to flounce her skirts but a warning glare from her mother stopped the action mid flick and it turned into a smoothing motion. She grabbed up one of the second best cups from the top shelf of the dresser and headed off through an arched door. Frodo swallowed, and this time it had nothing to do with the smell of cooling bread. Daisy had a way of getting her own back and the younger lad sat up straight, bracing himself.

Daisy sashayed back into the kitchen, the dewed cup of her mother’s china held firmly in both hands. She approached the table opposite Frodo with a small but wicked smile on her face and leaned forward to place the cup before him. Frodo’s cornflower eyes widened.

It was high summer and the Gamgees had not been expecting company. With the warm work of making the beds, Daisy had loosened the lacings on her bodice and Frodo suspected her visit to the pantry had “accidentally” loosened them further.

Bell’s table was wide, had to be so to accommodate such a large brood, and it necessitated Daisy bending very low as she leaned across it, cup in one outstretched hand and eyes locked on Frodo’s face. Frodo would have returned the gaze but he found his eyes locked somewhere totally different as he found himself on the receiving end of his first good look down a lasses’ bodice. He could feel a blush creeping up his neck and shifted uncomfortably upon the bench. Daisy remained still, confident in her command over him until . . .

“Daisy Gamgee! Get ye outside and feed them pigs!” Bell’s voice was not loud but the warning note in it was very clear.

Daisy startled upright but soon regained her composure. “But Mam! I ain’t finished the beds yet. Why am I always the one that ends up swillin’ the pigs?” Daisy whined. “Why don’t Sam do it? He’s youngest.”

Bell grabbed up her ball of dough and thumped it down into the waiting basin, taking up a long and sharp knife to slice off a smaller lump. To Frodo’s eyes she seemed to do so with unnecessary gusto. “Aye. ‘Tis not a nice job, is it?”

Frodo took a hurried swig of the cold water, sighing in relief as he felt the liquid slide down his body and settle in his stomach, from where it sent out cooling tendrils to other parts.

“’Tis an easy enough job and gives a body time to consider other things. So happen while yer doin’ it ye’ll have time to think on the proper manners for a young lass before a lad and in particular, a gentlehobbit.” She glanced up from kneading the smaller ball of dough. “And ye could fasten that bodice up while yer about it. The pigs’l not be impressed.”

To her credit, Daisy did blush as she grabbed up the slop bucket and stomped from the smial, even taking care to close the door quietly behind her.

Bell gusted out a puff of air as her eldest daughter left and Frodo concentrated hard on the cold water . . . concentrated very firmly on “cold”. Thus it was that he did not notice anything else for some time until a small plate was slid before him, on which sat a breakfast roll, opened and steaming, with a large dollop of butter melting slowly into it.

He looked up into Bell’s knowing eyes and she smiled. “Food. ‘Tis a wondrous thing for taking the mind off other things.” And with those gentle words she turned back to her kneading.


	13. Goodbye Harry

The summer of 1391 was hot and humid in the Shire. By harvest time the crops were dry and just waiting to be cut. In Hobbiton Farley Brownlock and Tom Cotton set up shop in the Ivy Bush and all the local residents signed up with one or the other to help gather the harvest. 

“Now then, Hamfast. Can I count on ye for my fields this year as usual?” Tom Cotton poised his pencil.

“That you can, Tom. My Bell, Daisy and May will help with the sheaves and Sam and Mari will go to gleanin’. Ham made his mark on Tom’s list. 

“How many years is it now that ye’ve been helpin’ with the harvest?” Tom asked as he made marks in the appropriate columns for the rest of Ham’s family.

“Well, Bell used to help when she were a bairn but my family’s been cuttin’ your wheat since me and Bell set up home on Bagshot Row. That would be near twenty-eight year since.” Hamfast Gamgee may not be one for writing but there was nothing wrong with his numbers.

“And I hope as how ye’ll be helpin’ fer another twenty-eight.” Tom handed over six tokens which would entitle each member of the family to luncheon and drinks for each day worked in the fields. 

Ham pocketed the tokens and grinned. “As long as we’re fit for it you can count on me and mine.” With that he made way for the next in line.

-0-

“Hello love. Did ye get signed up fer the harvest?” Bell Gamgee leaned in to kiss her husband then bustled off to get a kettle off the hob. “Ye’ll be wantin’ a cup of tea.” It should have been a question but Bell knew what her husband’s answer would be so it came out as a statement.

Ham hung his cap on a peg by the door and crossed to settle into his chair, moving it a little away from the warmth of the hob on this summer’s eve. “Aye. I’ve signed us all up. May can keep an eye on Sam and Mari and show them how to glean proper.”

Bell gathered up the tea things, handing over a plate with a heel of bread, some cheese and a couple of pickled onions. “Has Tom said what day they plan to start? Only Buttercup Rumble says there’s no sign of rain.”

Ham chuckled around of mouthful of bread and cheese. “You can rely on Butter’s arthritis to predict any rain. Tom’s thinkin’ of startin’ day after next. That’ll give folks time to get themselves sorted at home.”

Bell handed him his big mug, full of thick, dark tea. “Aye. I’d best get started bakin’ bread and such tomorrow. There’ll be no time once we start in the fields.”

-0-

“Ham! Ham, love. Wake up!” 

Bell’s voice broke through his dreams, that and her persistent shaking of his shoulders. “What is it, Bell lass?” He blinked and sat up as the urgency of her tone registered. That’s when he became aware of the frightened voices of the children, almost drowned out by the sound of wind and rain.

“The wind’s blown in Sam’s bedroom window and I think there’s somethin’ wrong in the back yard.” Bell was tugging at the laces of her bodice and Ham noticed that she had not paused to take off her nightgown, but thrown bodice and skirt over the top of it. She thrust Ham’s breeches at him as he clambered out of bed.

“Is the lad hurt?” he asked as he tried to walk whilst pulling them on and nearly fell.

“Sam’s alright and Daisy and May are helpin’ to sweep the glass.” They left their bedroom together and Bell pushed him toward the back door. “Ye see what’s goin’ on out back. I thought I heard someone cry out and there were a crash. Arty or Harry may be hurt.”

Hamfast looked back as Daisy appeared with an old wooden tray. “Will this be alright to cover the window, Ma?”

Giving one final push to Hamfast’s shoulders Bell bustled off to help her daughter. “It’ll do, lass. Did ye bring the hammer and nails?”

Daisy’s answer was lost in the howl of the wind as Hamfast stepped out of the back door of number three Bagshot Row. He was instantly wet through to the skin as the wind flung rain at him. For a moment, he considered going back for his cap. The knowledge that it would be blown off before he took another step and the desperate cries of Clover Mugwort changed his mind. 

“Help. Oh please, somebody help!” At a hundred years old Clover was still hale but her thin voice was almost lost in the wild roaring of the storm.

Ham lifted an arm in front of his face to try and keep the driving rain from his eyes and took a couple of steps into the wide back yard shared by the three properties of Bagshot Row. “Where are you, Clover?”

“Ham! Over here. By the workshop. Quick! He’s held fast!”

Hamfast had to lean into the wind to make any progress and almost fell when there was a sudden change of direction in the gale. The unexpected change did have the advantage of blowing the rain away from his face so that he could now establish that Clover was on her knees in the mud before her son’s workshop.

It was clear that one of the big double doors had been ripped from its hinges and now lay in the mud but at first it was not clear to Hamfast who she was referring to. Then he noticed that she was scrabbling beneath the edge of the fallen door, where a hand lay still in a puddle of dark water. 

Ham ran the rest of the distance, thumping to his own knees at her side. He had to put his lips to her ear to make himself heard over the tumult, which seemed to have increased in ferocity even during those few steps. “What happened?”

As Clover shouted her reply he began scrabbling about for a plank, anything to help him lever up the huge door. “The bangin’ of the door woke us up so Harry came out to see to it. But there was a strong gust that blew it clean off its hinges.” Tears were indistinguishable in the rain but Hamfast could hear them in Clover’s voice. “It happened so fast and took Harry with it. I can’t lift it on my own. Oh, please help him!”

Finally finding a stray plank Hamfast squeezed her shoulder before levering himself to his feet against the onslaught of the elements that seemed determined to keep him on his knees. “If I get this under the door to lift it do you think you can pull him free?”

Birdlike as she was Clover took a firm grip on her son’s wrist. “Aye.”

Even as she did so a second beefy set of arms reached in, digging another plank beneath the door next to Hamfast’s. “I reckon ye’ll need a hand with this.” Hamfast nodded thanks to Arty Sedgeburry then both pushed down hard on their respective levers.

It became a four-way tug of war between Clover, Hamfast, Arty and the wind. The wind had the final say, sneaking beneath the raised door and snatching it up so suddenly that Hamfast feared it would go sailing off through the air to attack some other poor soul. In the end it only flipped the door to land it with a loud splashing thud several feet away.

The sound was soon followed by the loud wailing of Clover Mugwart as her son’s broken body was revealed at last. Hamfast leaned down to listen at Harry’s chest but it was clear that there was no hope. The heavy door had hit the Shire’s best carpenter with such force that his rib cage and skull had been smashed beyond any recovery. Had he survived the initial impact he would not have done so for long. 

Arty caught Hamfast’s eye and his thought was clear. “Tis a blessin’ in its way.”

“Stay with him while I take Clover to sit with Bell. I’ll come back to help you move him,” Ham yelled as he wrestled Clover to her feet, curving a strong arm about her bowed shoulders to stumble with her to Number Three. 

-0-

The storm which had blown in with such swift violence from the south, abated as quickly as it had arrived. Dawn broke with an eerie silence. Even the birds seemed subdued. 

All about Hobbiton folk were boarding up windows, chopping up downed trees and rounding up stray animals. The residents of Bagshot Row were more subdued than most. Harry Mugworts’ body lay on the bench in his workshop and Bell Gamgee helped his mother to clean and dress him for burial, then sew him into his winding sheet.

Hamfast was dishing out fried eggs to his children when she returned. While she hung up her cloak he poured a cup of tea and handed it over with a peck on the cheek. Bell thanked him with a grim smile, taking a moment to look over her brood before she settled in her chair by the fire.

Clover Mugwort had gently refused any offer to stay with the Gamgees for a few days and would not hear of Bell abandoning her own family. Bell was both surprised and proud of Daisy for offering to stay with Widow Mugwort at least until the funeral. The tween had her faults but she was soft at heart.

The voices about the Gamgee table were quiet and May was helping a blissfully ignorant little Marigold with her food. Bell noted that the small cut on Sam’s hand had stopped bleeding. Her little lad was safe and, within a few weeks, she had no doubt that the scar would be unnoticeable among others from his work in the gardens with his father. 

Hamfast offered Bell a plate containing a bacon sandwich. “Just to put you on.” He placed his own breakfast on the table and settled on the bench closest to her. “I’ve asked Birky Bracegirdle to start diggin’ the grave and he’ll come round to let us know when it’s done.”

Bell set aside her sandwich untasted, preferring instead to drink her tea. “Ye should go up and check on Bag End after breakfast. There’s no tellin’ what damage has been done, exposed as tis at the top of the hill.”

Hamfast shook his head. “I’ve already checked. Tis all tight and tidy. Just a few branches tore loose from the apple tree. Twas one of them as came through Sam’s window. There’ll be no decent crop from it this year. The garden’s all of a mess too. I’ll take Sam with me and we’ll save what vegetables we can afore we start on our own plot.”

“Me and May will sort out our plot. You just deal with Mister Bilbo’s garden,” Bell offered.

“Then you’ll need some food in you my lass,” Hamfast announced pointedly as he indicated Bell’s still untouched sandwich. “I reckon the salad stuff will be fit only for pigs but as long as the tops haven’t been tore clean off, the root vegetables will survive. Gather up anythin’ else that’s edible and what we can’t eat we’ll spread amongst other families. There’ll be plenty of folk, especially down by the river, who will have nothin’. I’ll do the same with Mr Bilbo’s stuff.”

Bell acknowledged the sense of her husband’s injunction and took a bite of her sandwich. “I wonder if Tookborough caught it as bad as we did.”

“I hope not. The smials down by the Water haven’t flooded this time but from what I hear it was a close-run thing. Most have had their gardens washed away. I’ll start handin’ out food there first. I don’t reckon Mr Bilbo will object. Even if he started home this mornin’ he wouldn’t be back in time to make use of it.”

Bell shook her head. “I still don’t understand where the storm blew up from. Buttercup usually gives warnin’ but when I spoke to her this mornin’ she said she’d felt nothin’.”

“I wondered how Buttercup had fared. I didn’t have time to call in on my way to Birky’s.”

“She arrived at Clover’s with some bread as I was leavin’. There’s no damage to her smial, just a fall of soot, and Rowley Proudfoot’s goin’ to see to that while Butter sits with Clover fer the mornin’.”

Hamfast took a moment as he chewed his bacon. Windows could be replaced and all his bairns were safe and well. His eyes fell upon the small heap of tokens in the middle of the table and his heart was filled with foreboding. “I wonder what this storm has done to the wheat.”

Harry was buried late that afternoon and most of Hobbiton turned out to say their goodbyes. Harry was renowned throughout the Shire and even beyond for the quality of his carving, but in Hobbiton he was known best for his generosity. He would put as much love into the construction of a solid kitchen table for the poorest smial as he would into the creation of the most intricately carved box for a wealthy client. Many a tear was shed that afternoon.


	14. Making Do

1391 became known as the year of the Great Storm. The crops, standing so tall and golden just hours before were now flattened, the wind having swirled them into fantastical patterns on the ground. Had they just been attacked by wind folk would have rolled up their sleeves and gleaned what they could. It would have been a poor harvest but they would have something. However, the wind had brought with it driving rain that soaked the ears and within hours, mildew set in.

Within days, once the mess was dry enough, fields were lit and laundresses all across the Shire complained about the sooty smuts marking their nice white linens. This was one of the least of their worries, however. The storm that had blown in from the south had not burned itself out until it hit the sea, so the ruin was widespread. The Master of Buckland and the Thain got together to pool what grain reserves there were, and managed to buy in some from outside the Shire, but the storm had blown through other lands before reaching them so there was little to be had. What there was commanded a high price.

For the first time in living memory there was no Harvest Reel celebration and hobbits all across the Shire prepared to tighten their belts. As always it was the poor who suffered most for a larger part of their diet was bread, and the Gamgee household were no exception to this.

-0-

There was a knock at the door and May jumped up from the table to answer it. Bell allowed herself a smile. Two more opposite temperaments in two lasses could not be found than in Daisy and May Gamgee. Daisy kept her soft heart well hidden beneath a sometimes-surly disposition. Bell suspected she was fearful of hurt to a heart that was, despite outward appearance, probably too soft. May was bright and sunny, wearing her heart on her sleeve for all to see and willing to pick herself back up when life knocked her down.

“Hello May. Is your mother at home?”

Bell recognised Mister Bilbo’s voice at once and handed over the soup ladle to Daisy before joining over from May at the door. “Good day to ye, Mister Bilbo. Can I do aught for ye?”

Bilbo felt some concern as a much-reduced Bell Gamgee smiled out at him. Behind her all but Hamfast were seated at the table before what looked to be bowls of nettle soup. Bilbo held back a shudder for he was not at all fond of nettle soup and he suspected that several about the table were of the same persuasion. Still, many of the poorer folk were reduced to eating it this year and he wondered what they would consume once winter set in and all the nettles disappeared. He pasted on a smile and held out the basket he had been carrying over his arm.

“Good day, Bell. I am sorry to interrupt your luncheon but Frodo and I wondered if you could make use of these.” He flicked back the cover to reveal half of a chicken and mushroom pie, half a dozen sausages, some bread cakes and half a loaf. (He was always careful to avoid offering a whole item for that would be too obvious.) “I’m very much afraid that I overestimated the size of Frodo’s stomach again and bought far too much food for the two of us. There’s not enough of anything to feed all your brood but I thought perhaps the youngsters could benefit.” He tucked the cover back over this bounty.

Bell had to clear her throat before replying and was very much aware that all conversation at the table behind her had ceased. Mister Bilbo had been doing this regularly enough of late for her to know that it was quite deliberate. But the amounts he offered were small enough to ensure that it did not look too much like charity, and hobbit youngsters had hearty appetites. 

“Thank ye kindly, Mister Bilbo. I’m sure we can make good use of it.” She handed the basket off to May, who disappeared to the pantry, returning shortly and passing it back to their benefactor with the bob of a curtesy.

“I’m glad you could help us out. I do so hate to waste good food. Feel free to let me know if there’s anything we can do to help in return.”

-0-

May sat at one end of the table, chopping potato, while her Ma sat at the other, fishing the bones out of some chicken broth. The two were alone this afternoon, Daisy having gone to market, taking Marigold with her, while Sam had gone with his Da to work in the garden of the Sackville-Baggins.

“Make sure ye chop them taters nice and small, lass. They’ll help to thicken the soup. And when yer done ye can peel the carrots.” Bell winced as May used both hands to work her knife through a particularly large potato. “And watch yerself with that knife. I’d have liked more meat in this stew but I don’t want it to be yer fingers.”

May grinned. “I’ll be careful, Ma.” She began to slice the potato. “Ma . . . have you ever had a yen to see what’s outside Hobbiton?”

Bell picked out a piece of gristle. “Can’t say’s I have. I once went to Michel Delvin’ with my Ma and Da but that was afore I were married. Why do ye ask?”

May chipped the slices and then began to dice the chips. “I know things is hard this year. If Mr Bilbo hadn’t given us that chicken carcass we’d have no meat at all in the stew and I know that the coppers Daisy makes, working for Widow Rumble is helpin’. I was just wonderin’ if it would help if I got some work too.”

Bell set down her sieve. “Yer already a help here, lass. Yer Da and me will look after ye. Don’t fret. Yer too young to be worritin’ about such things. We’ve had hard times afore and we’ve always come through.”

Although young, however, May had already learned much from her mother. “I know there’s not much I can do in Hobbiton but I was thinkin’ of Brandy Hall. I was listenin’ to Master Frodo talkin’ to Sam and it seems they have maids and cooks there.” She started chipping another set of slices. “Master Frodo says they start some of ‘em even younger than me. Besides, I think I’d like to see what’s outside Hobbiton.”

Using the action of taking up her sieve once more and poking around for the last little bones gave Bell’s mind time to process this information. “I hope y’aint been givin’ too much thought to Mr Bilbo’s tales. Adventures is all well and good fer the occasional Took but most hobbits don’t hold with travellin’.” Bell sniffed. “And sometimes tales grow in the tellin’, ‘specially when there’s ale to go with ‘em.”

May considered this for a while as she pushed the small dish of diced potato down to her mother and began to peel carrots. “I don’t think I’d want to go on a real adventure, with wizards and dragons and the like. But I hear that the Brandywine River is so big that they have a ferry, and Brandy Hall is bigger than Great Smials. I think I’d like to see that.”

Bell tipped the contents of her sieve (now only scraps of meat) back into the broth and returned the pan to the hob. Checking the contents of a bag of onions she selected two, then reconsidered and put one back before beginning to peel it. “I know Brandy Hall is still in the Shire but (and I wouldn’t say this in front of Master Frodo) tis down on the borders and folks down there can be a bit touched. They do say that they see Big Folk sometimes, and even Elves. Although what business elves would have in the Shire I don’t know.”

Sweeping the onion skins into a basin, May went to add them to the kitchen waste.

“No, lass.” Bell stopped her chopping as May turned about, filled basin still in hand.

“Why, Ma? There’s no pig to feed so I was goin’ to put these for compost.”

Bell shook her head. “Nothin’ goes on the compost heap if we can eat it. Them skins will make a good base for broth. Put a pan of water on to boil and set ‘em simmerin’.”

May frowned but complied with her Ma’s instructions. “But I thought the skins were too tough to eat.”

“They are, but ye can boil all the flavour out of them and use the water for stock when ye’ve strained it.” Nothing went to waste in the Gamgee kitchen nowadays. Bilbo found many an excuse to provide tidbits to all the residents of Bagshot Row but even so, clothes were gettin loose and belts were getting tightened.

“So, what do you think, Ma?” May watched her mother add diced onion to the chicken broth and passed over her carrot to be thrown in.

Bell was a little distracted, as she often was this autumn. She was considering whether the stew would be sufficient served without a slice of bread, for that would leave bread for the morrow’s luncheon. “What do I think of what, May love?”

May sighed. “About me goin’ to work at Brandy Hall or Great Smials. Do you think Mister Bilbo could write a letter for me?”

Bell put her stew pan on the hob. “I don’t know, lass. Yer still a mite young to be leavin’ home. I’ll speak to yer Da after supper.”

-0- 

Bilbo had just settled into his study when the front doorbell jangled and he waited, relieved when he heard the slap of Frodo’s feet on the hall tiles as he went to answer. He was about to pick up his quill when he heard Hamfast Gamgee’s voice. “Evenin’ Master Frodo. Me and the Missus was wonderin’ if Mister Bilbo was free for a chat.”

Bilbo did not wait for Frodo’s reply, instead stepping out of his study to greet his neighbours, for it was most unusual for both to visit, especially at this late hour. “Hello Ham, Bell. Please come into the parlour. Frodo, would you make us some tea?”

Although they followed Bilbo into the parlour and perched gingerly upon the settee, Hamfast waved away the offer. “That’s alright, Master Frodo. We don’t want to put you to no trouble.”

“Nonsense. It’s no trouble at all,” Bilbo announced as he settled in his arm chair and Frodo trotted off down the hall to the kitchen. “Now what brings you to my door at this hour of the evening?”

Usually not one to be backward at coming forward, nonetheless, Bell looked to her husband to speak first. Ham cleared his throat. “We was wonderin’ sir . . . and I hope you don’t think us too forward . . . but you was sayin’ the other day . . .” His voice petered out and Bell finally took over.

“Ye said as how if there were aught ye could do to help we was to ask.” She paused.

“I did, Bell, and I meant it. Out with it. How can I help?”

It was Hamfast who continued. “Well, you know we had to butcher the sow last week. It weren’t fair to keep her ‘cause we didn’t have nothin’ spare to feed her and Bill Bracegirdle gave us a fair price.”

Bilbo doubted very much that Bill had paid a fair price but he kept that thought to himself. The laws of supply and demand did not work in everyone’s favour and poorer folk like the Gamgees were suffering most.

Bell picked up where her husband left off. “We was wonderin’ . . . we was workin’ it out and we could cope if we had just one less mouth to feed. And with ye havin’ family in Tookborough and Buckland we was wonderin’ if they needed any folk to help with cleanin’ and cookin’. Our May is a hard worker an’ she says she’s a yen to see the world outside Hobbiton.” Bell sniffed. “Although where she gets such ideas from I don’t know.”

Frodo chose that moment to return with a tray and Bilbo drew up a table. Bell’s eyes widened when she saw that besides the tea pot there was also a plate containing shortbread.

Bilbo took charge of the teapot. “I don’t doubt that she is. I have not heard of any maids required at Brandy Hall but I know Great Smials can always make use of another pair of willing hands. I would be happy to send a letter to Eglantine Took if you wish.”

Frodo handed out cups and offered the shortbread but the Gamgees refused all but the tea. 

“That’s very good of ye, Mister Bilbo. If May’s got it in her head to leave Hobbiton at least I know she’ll be looked after there,” said Bell with some relief. That relief was only partly a result of Bilbo’s offer. She had not been altogether happy about the prospect of one of her brood going ‘over the river’ to Buckland on the borders of the Shire.

Hamfast’s gaze kept returning to the shortbread and Frodo suddenly realised that they would probably not have flour to spare for such treats themselves. He began to feel uncomfortable, suddenly realising that Ham and Bell would not consider accepting such extravagance for themselves, when they had youngsters going hungry at home. 

Bilbo was very much aware of the dilemma, however. “That’s settled, then. I was going to do some letter writing this evening so it will be no great hardship to include one to Eglantine. Now, I wonder if you would accept a little gift from us for your youngsters. I have made far too much shortbread again so you would be doing me a favour if you took half a dozen pieces home with you.”

Hamfast’s lips thinned but Bell laid a gentle hand upon his knee. “That’s very kind of ye, Mister Bilbo. Just four will do, though. Me and Ham is used to doin’ without,” she replied with a smile.

“But we could spare six,” Frodo insisted, then shutting his mouth quickly when he saw Bilbo’s warning glance.

This time it was Hamfast who replied stiffly, “Just four. I thank you kindly for the thought but I don’t hold with charity when tis not needed. I reckon Daisy and the young uns would like a treat, though.”

Bilbo nodded. “I quite understand, Ham. Frodo, would you go and wrap four pieces for the children?” 

As Frodo left for the kitchen he heard Bilbo saying, “Now, when do you think you would be able to spare May?”


	15. Yuletide Blessings

Amid all the hardship of 1391 and1392 there was one bright ray of sunshine in Hobbiton. Bilbo and Frodo Baggins decided that they would host a Yule Feast. It was usual for each family to share gifts and food within their own smials but Bilbo Baggins knew that it would be a sparse affair for most this year.

So it was that on a cold and windy evening the week before Yule, the coming feast was the main topic of conversation in the Ivy Leaf Tavern.

“I don’t hold with changin’ things,” Birky Bracegirdle asserted as he took a sip of his cider. It was the same mug he had purchased two hours ago for, in common with most of the patrons, there were few coins to spare for cider this year. And yet folk needed something to bring them together, so Borden Brewer would rather sell one half to each patron than have no patrons at all.

“I’m not a one for change myself but there’s to be free food and ale. Borden there says Mr Baggins has paid him for the ale already,” Cal Brockside noted. “I can only speak for mine but my missus were right worrited about providin’ our Yule Sup this year.” 

Ted Sandiman drew on his pipe and sent a cloud of fragrant smoke upward. It joined the blue haze that always hung beneath the ceiling of the tap room. If Borden noticed that the smoke did not hang as thickly this winter he made no comment. Indeed, there were a few matrons who were rather pleased not to have to launder their husband’s shirts quite so often. “Well, I aint sayin’ ‘No’, to a free supper.”

“Didn’t think you would,” muttered Cal, earning himself a glower from Ted. Of all present, Ted was most able to afford to provide his own Yule Supper.

“Master Frodo says as how they always have a Yule Feast away down in Buckland,” Hamfast interjected. 

“And they say elves live in trees but that don’t mean it’s right fer hobbits,” Birky pronounced firmly. 

There was a long silence, in which all either took a sip of cider or drew on their pipes. Ted was the first to speak up again. “I hear Mad Baggins has paid Tom Cotton fer the use of his barn.” He frowned. “Might as well put it to some use fer it aint holdin’ no wheat.”

“Oh, he hasn’t paid,” Ham corrected. “He offered, mind you, but Tom wouldn’t take no money.”

Ted snorted. “Then he’s as touched as Baggins. He could have asked a pretty penny fer the use.”

Several sets of eyes rolled ceiling-ward but it was Hamfast who said, “Not everyone is lookin’ to line their pockets at the expense of others.”

Ted had sense enough not to reply to that for he had been charging over the odds for milling since the storm. His argument was that if he was asked to mill less grain he had to charge more if he was to feed his own family. It was an argument many could have made but most had more altruistic natures.

“Well, I think tis a neighbourly gesture and me an’ mine is goin’ to the feast.” Hamfast knocked out his spent pipe on the table edge. “Seems to me that in some folks eyes Mister Bilbo can’t win. If he don’t spend money he’s tight fisted and if he do, he’s showin’ off.” 

Ted Sandiman snorted. “He’s mad as a box o’ frogs either way.”

-0-

The very next day Tom Carter made his way up the hill to Bag End, his wagon piled high with boxes and sacks. Frodo Baggins met him at the gate and helped him unload the entire contents into Bag End’s expansive hallway. Bilbo sent him on his way with two silver pennies for his efforts (twice the going rate). He also pressed into his hands a bag containing two pounds of flour, with the injunction to hand it over to Tulip Carter to bake yule cakes for their faunts. This almost reduced Tom to tears.

Once the door was closed Bilbo stood in the middle of his hallway, surrounded by their delivery, and performed a little jig. “Frodo, my lad, this will be a Yuletide to remember.”

Frodo grinned at his uncles cavorting. “And now it will be remembered for a good reason.”

His words brought Bilbo to a halt and he turned about slowly to survey their bounty. “I don’t know how the elves managed it. Some of these vegetables should not have survived the journey from Rivendell in this weather.”

Frodo lifted the cover from a shallow box and gasped. “Bilbo, there are oranges in this box! Oranges! Where did Lord Elrond manage to find oranges in mid-winter and why haven’t they rotted?”

Bilbo shook his head, his grin returning. “I’m blessed if I know, but I asked for his help and he provided.” He bent to open a small sack, marked with the elvish runes for ‘wheat flour’. Inside was a white powder so fine that it felt like cool silk in his palm. “I don’t think we’ll have any trouble persuading Olin Baker to use this for his bread.”

“Nor Mistress Gamgee, if you’re still going to ask her to bake some pies.” Frodo opened a larger box. “There are plenty of apples in this one.”

“Of course I shall ask Bell to bake some of her prize winning apple pies. And I shall be asking Rosemary Cornberry to bake some sponge cakes. Is there any jam in that box to your left?”

Frodo lifted the lid on a solidly constructed wooden box. Rummaging amongst the packing straw he discovered jars of pickles and jam, bottles of flavoured oils and tubs of deep yellow butter. “There’s strawberry and raspberry jam and even a big jar of orange marmalade.” Frodo grinned, for Lord Elrond obviously knew that Bilbo was fond of toast and marmalade for first breakfast. It was no surprise, therefore, when his uncle sent him off to put the marmalade in Bag End’s capacious pantry.

When he returned, Bilbo was standing with pencil and paper, listing the foodstuffs. “Give me a hand here, Frodo. Once we’ve listed them and know what we have we will need to divide them up amongst those who have agreed to bake for the feast.”

Eager to see what other treasures may be stowed within the boxes and sacks, Frodo began to open them, calling out the contents to his uncle for listing. They even discovered sweet, fresh cob nuts, their sack stamped with the clustered oak leaf of King Thranduil’s realm.

On the first day of the new year Hobbiton celebrated the return of light. Nobody paid heed to the months of hardship to come before the next harvest and, for one day, they chose to live in celebration of Now. There was music and dancing and everyone, from the oldest gammer to the youngest bairn in arms, had a full belly. Many a toast was raised to Mister Bilbo Baggins, although that Gentlehobbit pretended not to hear them. Even the Gamgees, who on the morrow would be waving off their daughter, chose to see this as an opportunity to celebrate together one last time.

-0-

Next morning, when many a Hobbiton resident was still sleeping off an excess of ale, there was a knock at the door of Bag End. It was Bilbo who opened it to find a sombre May Gamgee on the step.

“You said as how I should come say, goodbye, afore I left.”

Bilbo smiled and beckoned her in, taking a moment to glance down the hill to see Tom Carter’s wagon outside Number Three. No doubt Bell was offering him a cup of tea. “Indeed I did, Miss May. Come into the kitchen. May I offer you a cup of tea? Frodo and I were just starting first breakfast.”

May wiped her feet on the mat before following Bilbo down the polished hallway. “I thank you for the offer, sir, but Tom Carter is wantin’ to be away. Widow Rumble says there’s rain comin’.” She stepped into Bag End’s well-appointed kitchen and took a moment to look about her, for she supposed she must get used to such grand rooms if she was to work in Great Smials.

Bag End’s kitchen was actually no bigger than that of Number Three. It had the same large table in the centre, with benches either side and a large cooking range in the middle of one wall. There the similarity ended, for in her family home the kitchen served as parlour too and here fancy china gleamed upon the painted and finely carved dresser. 

Master Frodo was lifting the kettle as she entered and he grinned. “Morning, May. All packed?”

His sunny smile was infectious it seemed, for May found her own face responding. “Yes, sir. I am. Not that I’ve much to take. The Thain’s lady said as how she would give me a uniform when I get there.”

Mister Baggins lifted two parcels from the table and held them out to her. “And that’s what made us invite you here this morning. These are for you, from Frodo and me.”

May’s eyes widened. “For me?” She unconsciously wiped her hands on her apron before reaching out to accept them. “But, tis past the time for Yule giftin’.”

Frodo poured water into the teapot. “Oh, this isn’t a Yule gift. This is a New Beginnings gift.”

May’s brows drew down. “There ain’t no such thing, beggin’ your pardon, Master Frodo.”

Bilbo chuckled. “Well, there is now. You will be given a uniform but you won’t want to be wearing it on your days off.” He winked. “Even parlour maids go to parties on occasion.” He took back the parcels when she made no move to open them, and set them back on the table. “Come on, now. Open them up.”

Once more, May wiped her hands before parting the brown paper, her wide brown eyes beginning to shimmer as she revealed a length of fine white linen. She slid a palm beneath one layer, and a tear slid down her cheek as she saw her own flesh through the fabric. “I ain’t never seen a linen so fine,” she whispered.

Frodo beamed. “That’s my gift. It’s came all the way from Rivendell. It was woven by elves.”

May flinched as though scalded, and she swallowed before she could meet his blue gaze. “Tis too fine for me. I thank you for the thought sir, but I wouldn’t dare cut it.”

It was Bilbo who replied, however. “Nonsense, young lady. Your mother tells me you’ve a neat hand with a needle and I cannot think of a lass who would look prettier in it. Now, open mine.”

With an almost dreamlike air, May set aside Frodo’s gift and opened the other package, which proved to be more fabric. This one was soft fine wool in a warm gold the colour of autumn leaves. Bilbo nodded approvingly. “I knew that colour would go well with your hair.”

More tears rolled down May’s cheeks and she had to fish about in her skirt pocket for a hanky. She folded the fabric away, reverentially. “Tis beautiful, Mister Baggins. I don’t hardly know what to say. You’ve been so good to me, gettin’ me this position and all. And now this.”

Bilbo helped her repackage the cloths. “It was the least I could do. I know I speak for Frodo as well when I say that your parents have given us more than we can say. I suspect that, had you a choice, you would have preferred to stay at home, but you have made a great sacrifice and we wanted to honour you.” He had to pause to clear his throat. “You are a brave lass, May Gamgee.”

On a sudden, May jumped forward to give Bilbo a strong hug. For a moment he froze, then his arms came around her. “I have no doubt that you will do well, but if you ever feel that you cannot cope, you come back to us. We’ll find another way through.”

May stepped back and dabbed at her eyes again. “Thank you, sir.”

Bilbo swiped at his own eyes and turned her toward the door. “Come on, now. Tom Carter will be wondering where you have go to.”

Frodo picked up her packages and followed them to the door. As he handed them over May reached up to plant a chaste kiss upon his cheek. “Thank you, too, Master Frodo.”

Before either Baggins could say another word she fled down the path, their gifts clutched close to her bosom.


	16. The Gamgee Correspondence

Frodo looked up from the pages of his book. Daffodils nodded in a gentle breeze, their butter faces lifted to the fresh spring sunshine. He glanced aside to where Sam was copying out a letter to his older sister, May. Frodo had helped him to draft it on a slate first and now the youngster was using his new pencil to transfer it to paper.

The two were sprawled on a rug, spread upon Bag End’s green roof. The huge oak above them was not yet in full leaf so they lay in dappled shade. Frodo had provided his student with a wooden board to work on and the youngster was locked in concentration, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth.

“Master Frodo, how do you spell that word again?” He pointed to what appeared to Frodo to be a white smudge on the slate.

“Let me read the rest.” He accepted the slate and tried to make sense of the sentence. “I think it’s, “Ma. That’s ‘M’, with the two mountain tops and ‘A’ for apple.” 

Sam grinned. “That’s it!” He bent over the board again and Frodo returned to his book, trying to force his brain to dive back into the complex paths of Sindarin past participles. It was some time before he surfaced once more, to find Sam watching him.

“Sorry, Master Frodo. I didn’t mean to disturb you, but I wondered if you’d just check I’ve got this right.”

Frodo smiled, setting aside his book to reach out a hand to accept Sam’s work. “It’s alright, Sam. I can finish this any time.” He accepted the sheet of paper with its carefully lined writing.

“Dear May,

I hope this letter finds you well. We are all well here. Ma, Da, Daisy and Mari send their love and Master Frodo asks to be remembered to you. It is Master Frodo that has helped me write this letter to you. 

Tom Carter says he spoke to Halfred last week and he is well too. We have not heard from Hamson but Ma says we will hear if anything is wrong. 

I hope you like your work and folks are being nice to you. Master Frodo says they have a person in Great Smials called a scribe who will read this to you and send a letter back to me if you want. I hope to hear from you soon.

Yours sincerely

Sam Gamgee.”

Frodo handed it back with a bright smile. “That’s lovely. Although maybe next time you should just sign your name as, ‘Sam’. You only really need to sign your full name if you are writing a business letter.”  
Sam frowned. “Thank you, but should I write the letter again, then?”

“No Sam. I am quite certain that May will be more than happy to receive your letter, however you sign it,” Frodo hastened to assure him as he handed it back. “Shall I write out the address on your slate so that you can copy it onto the envelope?”

Sam took a cloth to wipe his slate clean. “If you don’t mind, Master Frodo, can I have a go myself? If you say it to me I’ll spell it on my slate and you can check it, like you did with the letter.”

“Of course. Ready?”

Sam poised his chalk above the slate. “Right you are, sir.”

Frodo sat up to watch. “Miss May Gamgee, care of Mistress Eglantine Took, Great Smials, Tuckborough, Tookland, West Farthing, The Shire.” By the time Sam reached ‘West Farthing’ he was running out of room on his slate. Hobbits were very precise about addressing correspondence correctly, being quite fond of knowing their place in the grand order of things. When he had finished Sam handed over the slate and Frodo corrected the spelling of Tuckborough.

Sam frowned. “Why is Tuckborough spelled different to Tookland?”

Frodo grinned. “It happens sometimes. Over time spellings change but not always in the same way or at the same time. Bilbo would know best whether Tuckborough came first, or Tookland. It is possible that in a few more generations, particularly if more hobbits learn to write, Tuckborough will eventually change to Tookborough.”

Sam’s frown did not lift. “So, words change because more folk spell them wrong?”

Frodo chuckled. “I think that sums it up well. Now, come along and address your envelope so that you can run down to the post office with it before they close for the day.”

-0-

Frodo set down his basket of lettuce and radishes when he heard Sam’s call. 

“Master Frodo! Master Frodo, sir. May’s sent me a letter.” The little lad was grinning broadly as he sprinted up the hill, leaping over lines of vegetable tops in complete disregard for the niceties of lane and garden gate. Frodo had to catch him, for fear he would be bowled over if Sam did not manage to stop in time.

For a moment Sam rummaged in his breeches pocket, finally tugging free a folded envelope and thrusting it into his neighbour’s hand. “There’s a bit in it for you an’ Mister Bilbo.”

Frodo glanced down at the envelope. The writing was much too neat for May to have addressed it herself and he suspected that the scribe of Great Smials had penned it for her. He offered it back to Sam. “What message does she send?”

Sam only blinked, unused to the etiquette of letter exchange, and Frodo had to explain. “It is not considered polite to read another’s letters unless specifically invited. They may contain personal information or thoughts that are not appropriate for sharing.”

Sam considered for a moment. “That’s alright. Aint nothin’ personal in it. You can read it, sir.”

Frodo led the way to the little bench by Bag End’s front gate and motioned for Sam to sit with him. The letter inside the envelope was not long and his suspicion about the writer was confirmed when he read the signature at the bottom. Frodo went back to the top, aware as he read that the scrivener had tidied up some of May’s grammar.

“My Dear Little Sam,

I am so happy to hear that all are well back home. Ma is right about Hamson. He is probably too busy to send a letter but, why not write to him yourself?

Everyone here is nice. You should see the big room I share with just two other lasses. I even have my own bed and a big box to put my things in. It has a lock and Mistress Eglantine has given me my own key for it. I wish I could have a box like it at home to stop Daisy borrowing my stuff. I have been given a uniform and it is so pretty. I have two summer dresses, two winter ones and four pinafores. 

The other two lasses in my room are Primrose Bracegirdle and Bluebell Proudfoot. They are parlour maids too and they are showing me what needs doing. They are very kind if I get things wrong. 

Please tell Mister Bilbo that I have made up the cloth he gave me into a pretty dress for best. Please also tell Master Frodo’s that I have used his lovely cloth too. (Bluebell says I should not tell a young gentlehobbit what clothes I made from the white cloth, as it would not be proper.)

I am going to learn my letters, Sam! Mistress Eglantine has asked Master Noter to teach any who are interested and of course I said, ‘yes’. Maybe soon I will be able to write my own letters.

I miss you and everyone in Hobbiton.

Yours sincerely

mAy gaMgy

(As dictated to Orman Noter.)

Frodo handed back the letter, hoping his face did not show the blush he felt upon reading Bluebell’s injunction. The fine linen he had gifted to May was suited only to the most personal of garments and he had felt a little embarrassed at the time of gifting, but Bilbo had insisted that May would need shifts and the like. He pointed out that, as he had already provided the dress fabric, Frodo would have to be the one who gave the linen. His cheek tingled in remembrance of the kiss May had given him as she left.

“Tis a fine letter, Master Frodo, and that’s a fact.” Sam slipped it back into its envelope and folded it carefully to return it to his pocket.

Frodo brushed away memory and smiled. “It’s a very fine letter. If you need help in writing your reply please don’t be afraid to ask.”

Sam frowned. “But what shall I write, sir? I’ve told her that we’re all well. What else would she want to know?”

“Well, think about what May has told you in her reply. She spoke of her room and the lasses she has met. It’s usual to write of the things we do or the things that happen around us. Imagine May is sitting next to you and tell her about your days, just as you used to do at the kitchen table in the evenings.”

Sam digested this advice for a while. “But nothin’ much happens in Hobbiton and she knows all the folk here. There ain’t nobody new to tell her of.”

Frodo grinned. “Then maybe you can pass on some personal greetings to her from family and friends. She may have made new friends but I expect she still misses her old ones.”

“Dear May,

Ma and Da says they hope you are minding your manners and they are happy to know you are well.

Daisy says did you take her blue comb, because she cannot find it. She says if you did, she will tell Ma on you. I think she has just lost it and is cross that you have a box that you can lock and she does not.

Mari does not say much of anything but I gave her a bit of paper and a pencil and she has done you a picture. I do not know what it is supposed to be. Maybe you can make it out.

Master Frodo and Mister Bilbo was happy to hear that you had used the cloth and send their best regards. Mister Bilbo also said to tell you that if you need anything else you should let him know.

Yours sincerely

Sam”

-0-

“Dearest Sam,

Thank you for your letter and please give my love to all at home, even Daisy.

Tell Daisy that I have not got her comb. I think she lent it to Honeysuckle Chub for the Yule Feast and she had best request its return before it disappears forever. Marigold’s drawing is very sweet. I do not know what it is supposed to be either but just tell her I love it and have pinned it to the wall above my bed. Mistress Elglantine allows us to do that.

Primrose and Bluebell showed me how to set out the knives and forks and other things in the Thain’s dining room the other day. There are lots of dining rooms here but the Thain’s is the grandest. The walls are all wood panels like Bag End’s hall and the table will seat twenty people. I have never seen so much cutlery (that’s knives, forks and spoons). Every person gets nearly four knives and almost as many forks and they all have to be set out in a line at each side of their plates. They have to be in a special order too. I keep getting that wrong but Prim. says not to worry as it took her ages to learn.

I hope to hear from you soon,

May Gamgee

(As dictated to Orman Noter.)”

-0-

“Dear May,

I hope his letter finds you well. We have all had colds here. Most of Hobbiton has had it and some have taken right poorly, but we are alright. The only ones who have not got it so far are Mari, Master Frodo and Mr Bilbo. Mr Bilbo does not ever seem to get poorly. 

Daisy has got her comb back from Honeysuckle. I said she may want to say sorry for thinking you had taken it but she just sniffed, and Ma sent her out to clean the privy.

Why would anyone want so many knives and forks for one meal? Even if there’s more than one course you can always lick them clean between. Rich folks have some funny ideas to my mind, but do not go telling Ma that I said so. I am not supposed to say things like that about my betters.

I hope you do not get the cold.

Yours sincerely

Sam”

-0-

“Dear Sam

I am writtin this in deb. I have the cold. But mistress Eglintin is very kind. Give my love to Ma and Da and all.

May”

-0-

“Dear May,

Did you write that letter on your own? I am happy you are learning. I was going to tell you that you spelled some of the words wrong but Master Frodo says that I should not make you feel bad when you are still learning.

He has asked me to send you this old book of his. It is a dictionary and you use it to look up the spelling of words. I have never understood that, becos you need to know how to spell the word to look up how to spell it. It is good of him to send it, though, and he is going to pay the post for it.

I hope you are soon feeling better.

Sam”

 

Frodo watched Sam pulling weeds from between the carrot tops. “Good morning, Sam.”

Sam jumped up, wiping his hands on his breeches, and Frodo could almost hear Bell Gamgee’s sigh. “Mornin’ Sir. Da’s gone down into Hobbiton this mornin’. Is there somethin’ you’re wantin’?”

Frodo took a sip of his tea. “No, Sam. I just fancied a breath of fresh air.” He cleared his throat. “I think I may be coming down with that confounded cold everyone else has had.”

Sam’s young features registered concern at once. “Should I run for the doctor?”

Frodo managed a grin. “There’s not a lot he can do for a cold. I’ll be alright. When I’ve had this tea I shall take a nap.” He fished in his pocket and used a bright red hanky to wipe his nose. “Have you heard from May recently?”

“Not since she wrote she was in bed with a cold. That was a couple of weeks ago now.” 

“Maybe she has been too busy to write.”

“I think that’s it, Sir. Or maybe she’s still poorly. Some folks have taken this cold right bad. Are you sure you don’t need the doctor?”

Frodo managed another smile. “I shall be better in no time.” He headed back to the door, deciding that he really would like a nap now. “Send my regards to May if she does write.”

Sam knelt among the carrots again. “I will, Sir.”


	17. Washday Gathering

“Here you are, love.” 

Bell rolled over to find Hamfast sitting on the edge of their bed, mug of tea in hand. She blinked, then grinned sleepily as she pushed herself up and jammed a pillow at her back. “What brought this on? What ye been up to?”

Hamfast rolled his eyes as he handed over the mug. “I had to be up early this mornin’. Mr Bilbo has asked me to run an errand with him and as tis washday I thought you’d like to start with a good strong up of tea.”

Bell made to throw aside the covers. “Ham! Ye should have told me. I need to get up to make yer breakfast. The range will need tendin’ and where’s Mari?”

Ham stopped her by the simple expedient of giving her a smacking kiss. “You sit there and drink that. Daisy and young Sam’s got all in hand at the wash house, includin’ Marigold, and I made first breakfast for us all.”

Bell’s eyes widened as she considered the meagre contents of their larder. “What did ye have?”

“Don’t you fret. We had bread and drippin’ and a cup of tea. Mr Bilbo says he’ll buy us both second breakfast at the Pony’s Rest on the way. We won’t be back til supper time tomorrow.” Ham grinned, knowing that would help stretch his family’s food supplies . . . or at least ensure that their bairns got an extra mouthful for the next couple of days.

Ham climbed onto the bed at her side and Bell leaned in to his shoulder, sipping her tea. “When did Mr Bilbo ask ye to go with him? Ye didn’t say nothin’ last night.”

“He came out to speak to me this mornin’, while I was fetchin’ water to the wash house. Says he’s got someone to see out Needlehole way in the north and don’t think tis wise to walk all that way alone. Master Frodo is still gettin’ over that cold or he’d take him.”

“Poor lad. Clover took over some linctus fer his cough yesterday. She says he looked like he was improvin’.”

“Oh, Mr Bilbo says the lad is up and about but he don’t think tis wise to take him all that way so soon.” Ham dropped his voice. “Although what business Mr Bilbo would have in Needlehole I don’t know. He’s no family nor business out there as far as I recollect.”

Bell frowned. “I don’t mind him askin’ ye fer the favour. Goodness knows but he’s done enough fer us this year. But ye were due to go work at the Sackville-Baggins today. They don’t pay much but we could do with the coin.”

Ham squeezed her so hard that Bell almost spilled her tea. “That’s just it, lass. He says, as he’s takin’ me away from my other job, he’ll pay me by the hour at his usual rate! And you know that’s better than Mistress Lobelia pays. He also said, seein’ as how I’d be on duty all day and all night as it were, he’d pay me for all that time. I’ll earn more in these two days than I’d earn in a week from Mistress Lobelia!”

Bell looked up at her husband, as though trying to gauge whether he was joking, but Ham was just grinning down at her. “Hamfast Gamgee, did I tell ye lately that I love ye?”

Ham looked thoughtful for a moment. “Not for ages. I think it were as long ago as last night.”

Bell’s gaze dropped to his lap and she stretched up to whisper, “How long have we got afore ye have to go to Bag End?”

Ham’s eyes widened and he lifted the mug from his wife’s hand to set it on the floor by their bedside. “I reckon I’ve got another hour. Plenty of time to show me how much ye love me.”

Bell batted her eyelashes. “Ye’d best go set the latch on the door, then.”

Bushy eyebrows waggled. “Already did.”

-0-

Bell avoided her husband’s roaming hands, chuckling as she pushed him down the path to the gate, where Bilbo Baggins leaned on his walking staff, face wreathed in a knowing grin. 

“I’ll bring him back to you in a couple of days, Bell. I promise.”

“Covered in muck I’ve no doubt,” she replied, but her eyes twinkled. She watched them turn away and stroll down the lane, returning their wave before closing the door. “Well now. Let’s see what sort of a mess Daisy and Sam have got into,” she murmured as she crossed the empty kitchen to the back door.

As soon as she stepped into Bagshot Lane’s shared back yard she could smell laundry soap and was gratified to see her youngest son trotting into the laundry house door with his arms full of logs. She followed him into a steamy world.

In a far corner the huge copper steamed gently over a merry blaze that was fed by Sam. Daisy had her back to her mother, pouncing and twisting the dolly stick in its large, galvanised barrel. 

On the floor around her were several more huge tubs. Some contained whites that had been left to soak overnight. Others held clean water or clothes waiting to have the soap rinsed from them. It seemed Daisy had been working for an hour or more and her dripping hair and water marked clothing stood testimony to her diligence. Bell surveyed the tubs as she rolled up her sleeves.

“Sam, lad. Have ye collected the linens from Bag End?”  
Sam leaped up, his eyes wide. “I forgot!” He made to race out but Bell snagged his collar.

“Well, don’t forget Clover Mugwort’s linens, too. Tis the least we can do if she’s willin’ to look after Marigold.” She let go and bit back a smile as Sam shot off up the hill like and arrow from a bow.

Daisy didn’t bother to hide her amusement at her younger brother being caught in error, but her face straightened when her mother chided, “And ye should have checked that afore ye started, lass.”

Bell reached down to check a sheet from one of the tubs sitting on a long bench to Daisy’s right. “Have these been dollied?”

Daisy paused to straighten her back and tuck a strand of damp hair behind her ear. “Yes, Ma. That’s the first load, the ones that needed boilin’ first.”

Bell snagged the sheet, watching water sluice from it as she lifted it to shoulder height and then lowered it back to lean on it, before repeating the process. The clean cold water began to turn cloudy as soap was forced out by her actions. With a grunt, Bell lifted the rinsed whites into another tub, filled with blue tinged water and for several minutes both she and Daisy worked in silence.

So intent were they upon their work that when somebody spoke from the doorway Bell jumped. “Good morning Mistress Gamgee, Miss Daisy.”

Bell spun about to find Frodo Baggins smiling at her over an armful of sheets and towels. “Goodness, but ye scared the livin’ daylights out of me, Master Frodo.” She stepped forward to collect the bundle from him, dropping it into an empty tub to Daisy’s left. When she turned back Frodo was still standing in the doorway, taking in the scene in the little lime-washed space.

“Would you like some help? I feel at a bit of a loose end with Bilbo away.”

“Bless you, sir. The laundry house ain’t no place for a gentlehobbit like yerself. We’ll manage.” Bell studied the young master. His nose was dry but still red and his voice sounded a little nasal but Frodo’s eyes were clear and there was no sign of fever in his cheeks. 

He stepped aside as Sam returned, linens piled so high in his little arms that he could barely see over the top of them and Frodo helped him load them into the tub with Bag End’s linens. Sam blew his hair out of his eyes. “I got ‘em all, Ma. And Mistress Clover says Mari’s settled down to sleep and we’re all to come to Number Two for elevenses later.” There was no time for second breakfast on laundry day. In truth, over the past year there was precious little food to spare for a second breakfast in most smials.

“That’s good of her, but we’d best take a drop of milk and some bread with us.” 

“Are you sure I can’t help?” Frodo asked, surveying the piles of linen. “I know you struggle without May and, with Mistress Mugwort looking after Marigold it looks as though you could do with another pair of hands. How is Marigold, by the way?”

“She’s over the worst of the cold. Thank ye fer askin’.” 

When Bell still looked sceptical Frodo grinned. “All Brandy Hall’s youngsters were expected to help out in the laundry at some point.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder to where the mangle had been dragged out into the yard. “I can turn a mangle as well as anyone at least.”

Bell didn’t need to consider for much longer. With May at Great Smials and Clover Mugwort looking after a miserable little, cold-ridden Marigold they were two pairs of hands short, and Sam was yet too small to be of help with the heavy work. She fixed Frodo with her sternest gaze. “Don’t ye go tellin’ Mister Bilbo about this. It may be done down Buckland way but in Hobbiton t’aint proper fer a gentlehobbit to help with laundry.” Then her voice softened. “But I would be grateful if ye don’t mind helpin’ me to fold and mangle.”

Frodo’s face lit up and he rolled up his sleeves before reaching into the tub to fish about for the other end of the sheet that Bell bent to pull out. Bell found herself impressed when he followed her without instruction, touching his ends to Bell’s and helping her to wring before walking out together to the mangle. In the yard they folded the sheet until it would fit within the width of the rollers and Bell fed while Frodo turned the handle, guiding the flattened cloth into a dry tub. 

By the time elevenses came around Frodo had switched jobs several times, turning to the rinsing, collecting buckets of water, and taking over from Daisy at the dolly tub for a while. Even Daisy was secretly impressed at his willingness. Skinny he may be but he was no weakling, despite having to pause for a couple of coughing fits. Frodo discovered that the steamy air and exercise of the wash house actually seemed to ease his chest and he did not need to resort to Mistress Mugwort’s kindly meant but revolting cough medicine.

Clover Mugwort had done laundry often enough to know that on a hot day like this there was nothing better than sitting in the sun to eat, especially after being locked in the damp heat of a laundry house for hours, so she had spread out a cloth on the grass atop Number Two, Bagshot Row.

Bell slipped indoors to check on her youngest but Marigold was curled up, asleep on the spare bed in Clover’s kitchen, so she simply kissed the little lass’ brow before creeping out to join the others.

Clover handed Bell a cup of tea. “She’s slept most the mornin’. I think the fever’s goin’. I reckon she’ll be a lot better on the morrow.”

Bell accepted it gratefully. “Twas good of ye to look after her today, Clove. She’s too young to be left alone fer long and this cold took her hard.”

Clover waved away the thanks. “She’s as good as gold. And tis nice to have another body about the place again.” She glanced across the yard to where her son’s workshop stood silent. Only last month she had asked Mister Bilbo if he would consider letting it out to someone else. She didn’t like the silence and would rather know it was being used. She had sold Harry’s tools and lumber to Tom Buckleby just before Yule but Mister Bilbo said he would not let out the workshop again until Clover was ready. Mister Bilbo was good like that.

There was an uneasy silence in which Bell watched Sam trying to eat a slice of bread and honey without getting himself too sticky. Honey and butter had been Master Frodo’s contribution to elevenses. She chuckled. “Ye’d best wash yer hands and face afore ye tackle any more laundry, lad, or it’ll be dirtier comin’ out the house than it was goin’ in.”

Sam grinned broadly before licking his fingers. They did not sit for too long and, having helped Clover clear away, they returned to their work, for they were but half way through the mountain of whites and Bell had yet to tackle the delicate coloured clothes. These could not be boiled nor, in the case of finer fabrics, pounded in the dolly tub, so it was Bell who took on that particular responsibility while Frodo stepped in to continue helping Daisy with the whites.

“Do you want me to spell you with that, Master Frodo?” Daisy asked when she saw Frodo pause to stretch. He had been working the Dolly Tub for some time and she knew that it could be taxing on the arms, even more so to arms unused to the activity.

Frodo firmed his lips and set too once more, with a will. “No. I’m fine.” Lift, drop, twist. Lift, drop, twist. Frodo got a better grip on the cross handle, under-arm, trying hard to ignore the blisters he could feel beginning to form in his palms. Hot water, strong soap and unaccustomed activity was a lethal combination for skin. He had not lied when saying he used to help in the laundry at Brandy Hall, but that was a couple of years ago and muscle and skin had forgotten.

Bell reached across from her own tub to lay a gentle hand upon his arm. “Not so hard, lad. Yer just supposed to be forcin’ the soapy water through it . . . not beatin’ it to a pulp.” She prevented Daisy’s potential snigger with a well-timed glare.

“Sorry, Mistress Gamgee,” Frodo murmured as he softened his action.

“Tis alright. We all got to learn and maybe they do it different away down in Buckland,” Bell replied as she went back to her gentle agitation of one of Daisy’s print skirts.

Frodo had to smile. ‘Away down in Buckland’ was one of Bell Gamgee’s favourite sayings and conveyed a wealth of meaning. In Bell’s mind Buckland was a strange place; a buffer zone between the Shire proper and the world of the Big Folk. As such, it was liable to strange influences and the hobbits living there were open to ‘corruption’ by outsiders. Who knew what strange things they got up to in Buckland?

Of course, having lived there for many years, Frodo knew that Buckland folk could be even more set in their ways than those deeper within the Shire’s borders. It was almost as though Brandybucks felt they had to keep even more hobbit traditions, precisely to prevent the ‘corruption’ that Bell so feared.

Sam helped his older sister rinse and wring another sheet, then Bell helped her fold it for the mangle that Sam turned for them.

By lunch time the huge shared yard of Bagshot Row was festooned with damp linen. Lines had been strung from trees to post and back again and sheets and clothing filled every inch. Strong summer sun dried and performed its own bleaching on linen spread upon hedges and the grass of smial roofs. It almost seemed to little Sam that snow had fallen and he had to resist the temptation to leave a trail of footprints across all that whiteness. 

The exhausted laundry crew were not finished, however. There were buckets to be emptied, tubs to be rinsed and hung against the wall, the copper to be drained, its fire dowsed, a puddled floor to be mopped, the heavy mangle to be dragged back indoors and benches to be scrubbed. It was well past noon before Clover Mugwort ushered them into the Gamgee kitchen to eat. There, a much brighter Marigold sat, playing on her cushion by the fire, and Clover had set the table for all to eat.

Frodo donated a large pork pie and there were salad vegetables from the Gamgee garden, all washed down with milk for the youngsters and tea for the grown-ups. Daisy and Frodo were both proud to be included in those offered tea, although neither would have said so aloud.

Bell gathered Marigold into her lap, bending to check the child’s fever with a gentle kiss of her lips to brow, before wiping the lass’ little red nose. Marigold snuggled into her mother’s bosom at once whilst, of course, keeping an eye upon the food being placed upon her own little plate.

“Well, Master Frodo, I don’t know how we would have managed without ye, today.” Bell lifted her cup in salute to the tween sitting opposite.

Frodo’s face lit in a smile that would have had the laundry bone dry with its sunny brilliance. “I’m glad to have been of some help. Please don’t be afraid to ask if you need me again.”

“Thank ye, Young Master. Though I don’t think yer family would be over pleased with ye doin’ such work. Rinsin’ out yer own smalls and shirts is one thing but gentlehobbits don’t usually help with beddin’ and such.” Bell offered Marigold a piece of bread and butter after first wiping her faunt’s dribbling nose again.

Frodo only shrugged and Bell hid a smile as she studied the tween. He had long since abandoned his weskit and, like the rest of them, his fine shirt was damp from water and perspiration, clinging to him like a second skin. Bell noted that he had a good set of shoulders on him at least, but no matter how much he ate he never seemed to fill out around the middle as a hobbit should. Thankfully, there was little sign in those sparkling blue eyes of a return of the cold that had laid him so low for nearly two weeks. She bent to kiss her daughter’s crown. 

That sickness had swept through the Shire in the past three months, made more virulent by the fact that many folk were still living on short commons until this year’s harvest came in. One or two older gaffers and gammers had succumbed and Hobbiton had endured its fair share of funerals but, with fresh vegetables ripening in the gardens and wheat beginning to pale in the fields, the worst of the epidemic and the famine seemed over.

An hour later Frodo made his way back up the hill to Bag End, a little pot of ointment in his pocket. “Fer the blisters,” Bell had whispered as she pressed it into his hand at the door to Number Three. He smiled. This morning the day had threatened to spread before him endlessly, with no Bilbo to share it. Instead he had found companionship and exercise, purpose and pride in a job well done. 

He rolled his shoulders. What he needed now was a good wash and some clean, dry clothes. The irony of that was not lost on him.


	18. Baggins Birthday Buttoned Up

Frodo sauntered down the hill to Number Three. Even this late in the summer there were plenty of wild flowers flanking the little lane that ran along the front of Bagshot Row. Cow parsley offered up large plates of lacy white blossoms, as tall as Frodo’s waist, growing out of the pale lilac spikes of a clump of apple-mint; the latter having escaped from the Gamgee’s garden by means of a hole in the hedge. Frodo bent to crush a leaf, inhaling deeply of the fresh clean fragrance before opening the garden gate to Number Three.

As was usually the case on warm days, the door to the smial stood open so Frodo could hear the murmur of voices as he came up the path. Bell Gamgee was issuing instructions in her usual calm, no-nonsense way.

“Ye sit here Sam, lad. Then ye can put the shirt on the table. It’ll slide off yer lap elsewise. Daisy, I couldn’t find any matching wool for yer Da’s jumper so ye’ll have to use that green. There’s no help for it, tis goin’ to show so make sure yer stitches is neat.”

Frodo paused to wink at little Marigold who was sitting on the step, propping the door open, with a huge bowl of peapods at her side and a colander of shelled peas in her lap. She smiled back shyly as Frodo tapped politely on the open door. “Good day to you Mistress Gamgee.”

As his eyes grew accustomed to the relative gloom of indoors Bell turned to him with a wide grin. “Hello Master Frodo. Come in. I’ve got everythin’ ready for ye. Did Mister Bilbo see ye leavin’?”

Frodo stepped into the Gamgee kitchen, relishing the mixed smells of clean laundry, fresh bread and wood fires. Despite the warm weather the fire in the range was lit, for irons and water must be heated regardless of the sunshine. He grinned in return. “He did but I told him I was bringing some of my old shirts for you to make dusters.”

“Clever,” the mistress of the household replied as she waved Frodo to a seat at the table opposite young Sam. They sat closest to the door, to take full advantage of the sunlight.

Frodo took a moment to survey the room. Little Sam was threading a sewing needle with white cotton thread, his eyes crossed and tongue peeping out from the corner of his mouth. Before him on the table was what appeared to be a nightshirt.

At the other end of the table Bell was obviously in the middle of her ironing. A folded blanket was spread on the table and at its side was a basin of water and a pile of neatly ironed shirts. A still overflowing basket of un-ironed linens sat on the floor and Frodo did not like to think about how many hours of work it would take to clear it. Two heavy black smoothing irons sat heating atop of the range.

Daisy Gamgee sat in her mother’s chair, pointedly ignoring him. Frodo hid a smile. She was probably pleased to have been granted this privileged seat and at the same time she must have been quite uncomfortable, so close to the fire on such a warm day.   
He wondered how long she would tolerate it before common sense took over from pride.

When he noticed Bell hovering expectantly Frodo emptied the contents of his bag. Out fell Bilbo’s fine paisley patterned waistcoat and another smaller paper bag. Bell lifted the garment to examine it more closely. “Aye. Tis a pretty one. I remember him wearing it often. Pity about the missing buttons.” Indeed, where there should have been six buttons there was only one and even that was hanging by a thread. Bell tutted. “How ever did he manage to lose all these?”

Frodo giggled. “I think he was trying to escape a meeting with the Sackville Baggins’. He said something about getting caught up in a hawthorn bush.”

Bell shook her head. “If he’d said summat at the time I would have sent out Sam to collect them. Tis an awful waste of good brass buttons.”

“Well, I got these. They’re not brass but I thought they were rather nice.” Frodo opened the small paper bag and tipped out seven beautifully carved wooden buttons.

Bell scooped one up, laying it atop the fabric. “I wouldn’t have thought o’ wood to go with such a grand cloth but, bein’ dark an’ all, these look very well.” She smiled. “Ye’ve got yer uncles’ good eye for clothes I’m thinkin’.”

Frodo’s blue eyes glittered with pride at such praise. “I took the waistcoat with me to the market as you suggested. Tom Buckleby helped me choose the right size for the buttonholes.” Even as he spoke Bell was experimenting, slipping the new button through a buttonhole and nodding her approval.

She placed waistcoat and button back on the table and collected her sewing basket from the floor by the side of her daughter’s chair. Pausing for a moment to examine Daisy’s work she smiled. “Well done, lass. That’s very neat. Ye’ve a good hand with needle and thread when ye set yer mind to it.” Frodo swore he saw Daisy grow two inches.

Bell returned to the table, clambering over the bench to sit at Frodo’s side as she rummaged in her basket. “I still can’t believe they didn’t teach ye how to sew on a button away over the water.” 

Frodo had to swallow a smile. Bell always made it sound as though Buckland was a million miles away over the sea. “There were lots of aunties who liked to do that sort of thing so it was not something I had to learn. And, if I’m honest, I was more interested in exploring the countryside or the library.”

Having found a close match of thread for the brown buttons and her pin cushion Bell opened a little felt needle book. “Well I never. I’ve heard of libry’s but I aint never seen one. All them books must be quite a sight.” 

Even Sam had set down his threaded needle and was staring, wide eyed, at the casual mention of such a place. “Do they have books about elves?” he asked in an awed whisper.

“I don’t think so, Sam. They are mainly family histories or general histories of the Shire.” When Frodo saw his little friend’s face drop he added, “But there were some on gardening and a few lovely children’s story books, with coloured pictures.”

Sam’s face grew wistful as he took up his needle once more. “I wish I could see ‘em.”

“You just get that button sewn back on yer cuff, Sam Gamgee. If wishes were money ye’d be rich enough to buy yer own library. Ye just be grateful Mr Bilbo and Master Frodo is teaching ye to read.” Her kindly tone ensured that the censure was not as harsh as it could have been.

Sam bent his head to tie a knot in the end of his thread and Frodo determined to let the youngster have a look at one or two of his own books next time he came to Bag End for a lesson. They were a bit battered to be sure but they were childhood memories of his mother and he had kept them for that reason alone. He was sure Sam would be careful of them.

He was drawn back to the present by Bell’s hand in front of his nose, holding a fine steel sewing needle. “Well. Let’s start with threading the needle, shall we. Ye don’t need me to tell ye how. I’ve snipped off a piece o’ thread that should be long enough to sew on one button.”

Frodo accepted needle in one hand and thread in the other, holding them up to the light coming through the open door to accomplish this tricky task. Bell watched patiently. “When yer sewin never cut a piece o’ thread too long ‘cause every time ye pull it through the cloth it gets rougher and that’s when it starts to knot up or snap,” she imparted sagely.

Like most hobbits not encumbered by the natural clumsiness of extreme youth or age, Frodo had nimble fingers and good eyesight so the needle was threaded quickly enough. Which isn’t to say that the tween didn’t feel some pride in doing so.

“This first time I’ll show ye how to knot the end. Now, some folks don’t hold with knots, sayin’ as they come undone too easy and then the work unravels. But if ye do a couple o' little stitches first too that shouldn’t be a worry and it makes things easier.” As she spoke Frodo watched her draw both ends of the thread together. Then she licked her index finger and pinched the ends of the thread between thumb and finger. Frodo blinked as she deftly wrapped the thread three times about her finger and then rolled it off, catching it below the nail of her middle finger and tugging the thread tight, resulting in a neat, round knot.

Bell handed back the threaded needle and Frodo saw Sam grinning at him from across the table. Doubtless the youngster knew that Frodo would never be able to remember that action. Frodo decided to postpone that problem for the moment for beside him, Bell was already addressing the next step. 

“Ye’re lucky here ‘cause ye can see where the old buttons was. Ye won’t have to measure ‘em. Can ye just see them little bits o’ thread? ‘Tis a good job the cloth didn’t tear or we’d have to patch and that never looks neat nor is as strong.”

Frodo decided he was rather pleased that luck was on his side. Sewing on a button was one thing but putting a patch on one of Bilbo’s best waistcoats was definitely pushing said luck. He was even more pleased when Bell announced that his luck still held.

“And the lining aint fixed at the hem. That means we can hide the stitches,” she announced with a smile as she lifted the lining up to expose the inside of the garment and handed it back to her pupil. “Now, I want ye to make two little stitches first, one atop the other. See the size o’ the gap between the two holes on the button? That’s how long they should be.” With those words Bell turned about to attend to Daisy, who had just let loose a mild expletive.

Frodo took a deep breath and applied needle to fabric, but when he tried to come back up again the garment began to slide away from him across the table. Suddenly a small foot kicked him firmly in the shins and he looked across at Sam in alarm. The youngster pointedly held up the cuff of his nightshirt in one hand and his needle in the other. Then he made his stitch, using his spare hand to steady the cloth. Following suit, Frodo offered him a silently mouthed, “Thank you.”

By the time Bell turned back, having untangled her daughter’s thread, Frodo had made the two requested stitches and Bell patted him on the arm in approval. “Well done, lad. That’s a good beginnin’.” She fished about in her sewing basket, finally producing a thin wooden bodkin. “I’ve learned when folks start to sewin’ they pull the stitches too tight and that’s no good with a button. It’s got to be loose to push it through the hole, so when I teach my bairns I use this. Turn the work over so ye work from the front now and bring yer needle up.” When Frodo complied, she smiled. “That’s it. Yer goin’ to be easy to teach.”

Frodo would have been proud of the praise if he had believed it. This was all getting very complicated and he was wishing he had just written his uncle a poem as this year’s birthday present. With the fabric in one hand and a needle in the other, Frodo was not altogether sure how he was going to be able to manage a bodkin and a button as well.

Bell held out a button. “Hold this in place with yer thumb, just on the edge.” One look at Frodo’s alarmed face and she relented, taking the garment and needle from him. “Like this.” She gathered the fabric up in her palm popped the button on the right spot and held it in place on the edge with her thumb nail. It looked so easy when she did it, Frodo thought. “Alright now. Ye put yer hand over mine and we’ll swap. Don’t look so worried. Ye’ll get the hang o’ it.”

With a bit of fumbling on Frodo’s part they managed to transfer and once his hand was in place it did actually feel quite secure. Frodo even managed a shaky smile. He did notice that Sam had set down his own work and was now watching with some interest. Bell noticed too.

“Samwise Gamgee, I don’t see no new button on that cuff yet. Ye get on with yer own job.”

“Yes, Ma.” The youngster gathered up cuff and needle, catching up his own button and holding it in place in a way that only drew a splinter of envy from the older Frodo.

“Now, Master Frodo. T’is easier from here, I promise. Push the needle up through one of the holes in the button, down through the other and back through the cloth. But remember what I told ye and don’t pull it too tight.” 

This much Frodo managed to do and was surprised when Bell then slipped the slender bodkin between button and fabric and through the stitch just formed. “There now. Ye can pull yer stitch tight and the bodkin will still give ye a bit o’ slack. Yer biggest problem now is findin’ the hole in the button again and I’m afraid ye’ll just have to fish a bit for it. After one or two stitches yer hand sort of gets to know where tis.”

A little sceptical of his hand’s ability to know anything Frodo tried nonetheless. By the third stitch he discovered that Bell was right and for the next three he had no trouble. 

Bell grinned. “I said ye’d get it. Stop now. Six stitches is enough. Ye’ll not get more through them holes. Take the needle down through the hole but not into the cloth.”

Frodo complied with a bit of fumbling, hoping against hope that the next instruction would be, ‘Now cut the thread.’ Sadly, it was not.

Bell slipped the bodkin out. “Now wrap the thread around ‘neath the button four times. It’ll wrap the stitches and make it stronger. That thread’s goin’ to take a lot o’ wear over time. When ye’ve done that push the needle through to the back of the cloth.”

Frodo had to consider for a moment before he realised that he could now let go of the button. His mind was so filled with instructions on this new craft that it seemed to have stopped functioning temporarily. Once he did let go, however, wrapping the thread was easy and he soon had the needle back on the inside of the waistcoat. He glanced up to see that Sam was snipping off the thread at the inside of his cuff and the youngster grinned.

“Now just do two little stitches. Keep ‘em where they’ll be hidden by the button on the front. Then ye can cut off the thread.”

Frodo followed instructions and finally lowered the waistcoat with a sigh of relief. He decided he really did prefer Quenya translation to sewing.

Bell lifted the waistcoat and examined the newly attached button. “Well done. That’s a neat job for a first go.”

Frodo was aware of a soft sniff from Daisy behind him. No doubt she would have done a much neater job and in half the time. But when Frodo looked again at his work he decided it didn’t look too bad at all. In fact, it was quite passable. He smiled. But his face dropped when Bell spoke again.

“Now ye’ve just another five to put on the front and the spare is stitched on the inside o’ the side seam.”

Bell must have seen his expression for she patted his arm. “If ye want to stay and do ‘em here, in case ye get stuck, yer welcome. We’ve some cold cider in the pantry and I think there’s an apple pie goin’ spare.”

Frodo did not need to consider for too long. Hide in his room and potentially get himself in a knot or sit here, with help on hand and the offer of food and drink? “Thank you, Mistress Gamgee. I’d love to stay.”

-0-

Frodo arrived to first breakfast with a big grin and a carefully wrapped parcel.   
“Happy Birthday, Bilbo.” He held out his beribboned package.

Bilbo beamed in response and pointed to a small box on the table by Frodo’s plate. “And a Happy Birthday to you, lad.”

Frodo sat to open the box. Inside was a beautiful silk cravat. “Oh Bilbo, how lovely. Thank you so much.”

“It’s time you started dressing as more of a gentlehobbit.”

Frodo grinned as he bent to examine the fine stitching on the hem and Bilbo tugged at the satin ribbon on his own gift. The brown paper fell open to reveal his old waistcoat and for a moment he was perplexed. Then he noted the fine new buttons and grinned. “Well, now. It looks like Tom’s Buckleby has been busy.” He held it up against himself.

Frodo’s smile widened and he could not hold back any longer. “Bell Gamgee showed me how to do it but I sewed on all the buttons myself.”

Bilbo’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Then I had best take better care of them this time. Thank you, Frodo. I’m touched.” He slipped the waistcoat on, fastening the buttons before giving a twirl, arms wide. “So, what shall we have for breakfast? How about your favourite? Bacon and mushrooms?”


	19. Grey Wizard

Autumn seemed to have leapt out of summer, full blown and bitter again this year. Fortunately, it waited until after the harvest this time, much to the relief of everyone. Frodo listened to wind ripping the last leaves from the apple tree and moaning in the chimney, glad to be sitting with a good book by a warm fire on this blustery eve. 

He was alone in the parlour, Bilbo having taken himself to the study for his weekly letter writing. Aunt Dora had sent one of her regular missives and Bilbo always complained that he needed silence and concentration, to ensure that his replies stayed within the bounds required of polite society. Frodo grinned. Aunt Dora’s latest injunction was that Frodo should not be allowed to read too much, as it was well known that all the Baggins family had weak eyes. Dora had obviously not taken into consideration the fact that most of the current crop of Baggins’ were considerably older than Frodo. He was roused from his thoughts by a loud and persistent knocking at the door.

“Now, who in the world would be out in this weather at this time of night?” He set aside the book and hurried out into the hall, in time to see Bilbo stick his head out of the study doorway. “I’ll get it, Uncle.” Frodo had a firm grip on the handle but still he stumbled back, landing on his bottom as the front door swung open with alarming force. His jaw dropped as he beheld the image revealed by lamplight.

It was a huge grey mountain. No. It was a person, dressed all in grey . . . long grey robes, grey scarf, grey beard, grey pointed hat. A very big person. A distant part of Frodo’s mind connected elderly gent, grey beard and pointy hat to equal wizard whilst the rest of his mind, including that part which controlled his voice, ran for the hills.

“Gandalf! My old friend. How lovely to see you.” It was Bilbo’s voice and it’s familiar tones restored enough of Frodo’s sanity to enable the youngster to gather his limbs and clamber to his feet. He performed a hasty bow, noting as he did so that the newcomer was dripping rainwater on the antique rug.

The wizard leaned heavily on a large gnarled staff and cleared his throat before replying. “Hello Bilbo. I wonder if I could impose upon your hospitality for a little longer than expected?”

Bilbo trotted forward, his face wreathed in smiles of welcome. “Of course you can. Your room is all ready. Just as well we prepared it early. With this weather I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow or even the next day.”

Frodo had been studying the big person throughout his uncle’s welcome and he noted that Gandalf was swaying a little. His gaze surveyed this person from legend from head to foot once more and blue eyes widened as he realised that it was not just rain water that was staining Bag End’s hall rug. “Bilbo . . . he’s bleeding!”

Weary eyes fell upon the youngster as though noting him for the first time. “Sorry to be a nuisance. A slight accident. My cart went into the ditch. Silly horse took fright at a fallen tree.”

Bilbo seemed to grow ten inches before Frodo’s eyes. “Right. Frodo, go and rouse the Gamgees and Sedgeburry’s down the row to see to the horse and cart. Then tell Bell Gamgee that I could do with her nursing skills up here.” He pushed Frodo out of the door, before ushering the wizard inside.

For a moment Frodo could only stand upon the doorstep in his shirtsleeves, buffetted by wind and rain. Then he took a deep breath and sprinted down the hill to number three. He was more than a little thankful to see the glow of a candle through the window, showing that the household had not yet gone to bed but his hand refused to rap politely, instead hammering loudly and every bit as urgently as Gandalf had just done at Bag End.

The yellow door was thrown open to reveal Hamfast’s angry face. “Here now. What’s the need for all this racket when decent folks is preparin’ for bed?” Behind him the rest of the family gathered about the long kitchen table. Their faces showed a mixture of surprise, annoyance and curiosity. Peering into the darkness beyond the doorway Hamfast Gamgee took in the breathless young master of Bag End, hair dripping into his eyes and shirt plastered to his chest, and his expression morphed to concern. “What ever is to do, Master Frodo?”

Frodo gulped in a deep breath. “Sorry to disturb you Master Gamgee. I know it’s late, but I believe a horse and cart belonging to our guest have gone into the ditch down the lane. There’s also a tree down and Uncle Bilbo asks if you and Arty Sedgeburry could go and see to it?”

Hamfast asked no questions, only turned to grab his jacket and cap from a peg by the door. “Consider it done, sir. I’ll go get Arty. Leave it to us.”

Bell Gamgee wound a scarf about her husband’s neck. “Is yer guest alright?” she asked.

Frodo shook his head as Hamfast pushed past him and ran down the hill. “No. He’s bleeding and Bilbo wonders if you could come and help?”

Bell grabbed her heavy winter cloak, throwing it about her shoulders as she turned back into the room. “Daisy, lass . . . yer in charge till we get back. Make sure Mari and Sam get to bed.” She did not wait for a reply before slamming the door and wrapping her arm and cloak about Frodo’s shoulders. “Walk with me, lad. Ye must be fair froze.”

Indeed, now that his tasks were almost fulfilled Frodo was beginning to tremble a bit with the cold so he was grateful for the warmth of Bell’s ample body at his side and the thick cloak protecting them both from the worst of the wind and rain. On top of the hill as it was, Bag End got the worst of the weather and both were breathless by the time they stood in the warmth and quite of the panelled hallway.

Bell unfastened her cloak and Frodo took it from her. “I’ll hang this in the kitchen to dry.”

“Thank ye. Where’s yer guest?” Bell took a moment to shake out her skirts and smooth her hair.

Frodo looked at the line of large wet bootprints disappearing down the hall and glanced aside at Bell, who was frowning as she too noted that they were boot prints and not those of bare feet. “Bilbo will have put him in the big bedroom. I’d better show you in.” He set down her cloak and led the way to Bag End’s special bedroom.

When Frodo had first arrived at Bag End he had discovered the big bedroom when exploring. In truth, the room itself was not much bigger than others in the smial, it’s height being most notable. Indeed Bell Gamgee had been heard to complain that the height was a nuisance when it came to dusting off the cobwebs. The main reason it was called the big bedroom was because of the size of the bed. It was wider and twice the length of a normal bed and had taken a lot of effort to dress yesterday.

Frodo tapped lightly before popping his head around the door. “Is it alright for Mistress Gamgee to come in?”

How he had done it Frodo would never know but Bilbo had managed to divest the huge wizard of his wet clothing, which now lay in a sopping heap by the hearth, pointy hat atop the pile. Bilbo looked up from where he was tucking in the blankets and quilts. “Yes lad. He’s decent.”

Frodo held open the door for Bell to enter.

Bell stood upon the threshold, eyes wide and mouth open. Bell Gamgee had never come close to the borders of the Shire in all her years so this was the first big person she had ever seen. Oh, she’d heard of them. She’d even imagined what they may look like from the size of the bed in this room, but knowing they existed and actually seeing one was quite a different matter. Frodo could only sympathise. Having been raised in Buckland he had seen many large folk on the borders but only from a distance.

He smiled at the lady, still holding the door for her. “It’s alright, Mistress Gamgee. This is Gandalf. He has visited the Shire before. You may have heard of him,” he coaxed quietly. “He went with Bilbo on his big adventure and he used to visit Tookborough when the Old Took was alive.”

“Thank goodness you’re here, Bell.” Bilbo came forward to usher her to the bedside. “I can wash a cut but I think this needs stitching.” It was his matter-of-fact voice that seemed to pull Bell from her shock and she stepped up to the bedside willingly. 

“I am sorry to be such a trouble,” Gandalf offered in a soft, gruff voice. “I should have been paying more attention. The tree came down in front of my horse and I was not fast enough to stop him panicking. We both ended up in the ditch, although I think I came off the worst.”

“The Gaffer and Arty Sedgeburry have gone to see to your horse and cart. They’ll bring them back to the barn at the bottom of the road. Don’t worry,” Frodo offered.

“Well, there’s a lot of blood, to be sure. Have ye a medicine box or needle and thread? And Master Frodo had best gather up them clothes. They’ll need a good wash.” Bell frowned as she took in the young master’s appearance again. “And ye’d best find some dry clothes for yerself while yer at it, Master Frodo. I don’t want to end up physickin’ both of ye. Put Mr Gandalf’s clothes in a bucket of cold water. Not hot, mind you, or that blood stain will set.”

Bilbo winked at his nephew and Frodo gathered up the huge pile of wet clothing and departed for the normality of the kitchen. There he dumped all but the hat into a bucket before adding wood to the range and checking the water level in the boiler. No doubt Bell would be sending for warm water soon.

Bell lifted Bilbo’s hastily contrived dressing to examine the arm beneath. A long and ragged rip was revealed and Bell tutted. “It needs a good cleanin’ afore we do anythin’. It’s still bleedin’ freely but that can be good to wash out anythin’ inside the wound.”

As she replaced the cloth Frodo returned, bearing a large tray, and Bell nodded approval as she noted a ewer of steaming water, basin, rags and the physick box. Frodo had even taken a moment to throw on a dry shirt and breeches, although his hair was still dripping onto his shoulders. “Thank ye kindly, Master Frodo. Can I impose on ye to light a fire in the grate?”

“Of course.” Frodo pulled a tinder box from his pocket and set about putting flame to the kindling already laid, following up with the judicious use of a pair of bellows. As he worked he glanced over his shoulder to where Bell Gamgee was warming to her task.

He had heard of Gandalf the wizard, of course. Bilbo had been regaling him with tales from his adventure for years. And when Gandalf had stepped out of legend and into Bag End’s hallway Frodo had found the sight more than a little frightening. But now, seeing the grey haired old man, lying naked and trembling in the big bed he found that he wasn’t nearly as scared. He even began to wonder if all Bilbo’s stories of the wizard’s exploits were actually true. Goodness knows, Bilbo Baggins never let a little thing like the truth get in the way of telling a good story.

“Now sir, are ye hurtin’ anywhere else?” Bell made good use of the footstool Bilbo brought to the bedside, accepting his hand to help her to step up so she could reach better.

Gandalf shook his head. “Only some bruises. I am certain nothing is broken. I was winded more than anything.”

“No doubt,” Bell commented. “I don’t hold with travellin’ in carts. We was given two strong feet for a reason.” This elicited a thin smile from the traveller.

“Should I send for Doctor Brockleby?” Bilbo asked as Bell poured warm water into a basin and added a cleansing herb.

The lady shook her head. “He’s away down t’other side of Hobbiton, tendin’ Flora Fennelly. It’s her first confinement and they think tis twins. He’ll be gone hours yet.” She began to cleanse the long and ragged cut and Frodo noted Gandalf’s jaw working, as though he were grinding his teeth. Frodo could only pity the old man, having experienced the stinging effects of that particular herb on several cuts and scrapes over the years.

“I’m sorry, Mister Gandalf, sir. I know it stings a mite but it’s got to be cleaned afore I can stitch it. We don’t want to be closing in the muck or it’ll fester.” Bell held the old man’s arm in a firm grip but Frodo suspected that if he wanted to, the big man could have easily broken free. 

Gandalf managed another weak smile. “It’s alright, Mistress Gamgee. I’ve endured worse and you’ve a gentle touch.”

“Well, now . . . er . . . thank ye,” Bell stammered, apparently still a little overwhelmed by the wizard. She laid a clean dressing over the wound for a moment while she threaded a rather large and wicked looking needle with green silk. As soon as Bell began to apply the needle to Gandalf’s flesh Frodo swallowed firmly and decided it was time he went to heat some broth for their guest. 

It was almost half an hour later when he judged it safe to return with the tray, and arrived in time to see Bell tying off a neat bandage. Gandalf the Grey was living up to his description, Frodo noted. His face was almost as grey as his long beard. 

When Bell spotted Frodo she smiled broadly. “Perfect, young Master. A nice drop o’ hot broth is just what Mr Gandalf needs.” 

Frodo thought “Mr Gandalf” did not look too sure about that statement, his face taking on a slightly greenish cast. He lowered the legs and set the tray across their guest’s knees however. 

“Perhaps later?” Gandalf asked hopefully. 

But the formidable hobbitess was not to be put off. “Now would be better. Ye’ve had a nasty shock for a gentleman your age and ye need somethin’ warm inside. Ye’ll feel better for it,” she pronounced firmly as she offered a spoon.

To Frodo’s surprise, rather than threatening to turn her into a toad for her impertinence, the wizard meekly accepted the utensil and began to spoon up the broth without further demure. 

A knock at the door sent Frodo scurrying from the room to greet Ham Gamgee. He shepherded Bell’s husband to a chair in front of the now blazing kitchen range and poured him a mug of broth before asking, “How did it go? Did you find somewhere big enough to stable the horse?”

Ham nodded. “I did, Master Frodo. And it weren’t an easy job, I can tell ye. There were only just room to fit him in the stable with Arty’s cow. We had to just cover the cart wi’ a tarpaulin and weight it down wi’ rope and stones. I hope it’ll hold ‘til this wind dies down.”

“Thank you, Mister Gamgee. I hope you did not have too much trouble brushing   
down the horse?” Frodo offered a plate of fruit scones and Ham took two.

“Well. I wouldn’t want to do it again. We had to stand on a milkin’ stool and a box but we did the best we could. He’s well-mannered at least and we’ve left him with a bucket o’ water and another of oats. There’s hay in the manger if he’s still hungry.” Hamfast sniffed. “Goodness knows how much an animal that size eats.”

“I’m sure Bilbo will recompense Mr Sedgeburry for the feed and lodgings in the morning. Did Arty go straight home?” Frodo took a scone for himself. All this excitement had made him hungry.

“He did. Buttercup weren’t too pleased about him goin’ out so late on a night like this but it couldn’t be helped. You can’t leave a poor animal out in this rain. Them smials along the river is like to flood again if it goes on like this.”

Bilbo and Bell stepped into the kitchen at that moment. “Do you think they could?” Bilbo asked as he set down the tray. “It seems only a few months since we had to bail them out last time.”

“In truth, I think this’ll blow itself out in a couple of hours. It depends on how bad they had it upstream and it’ll be sunrise afore we know that. Best leave ‘em to sleep.”

Bell bent to examine Gandalf’s robes, which Frodo had left soaking in cold water, as instructed. “I think the blood is comin’ out o’ these. Tis washday tomorrow, if the weather breaks, so Ham and me will take these with us. I can do ‘em with our stuff. They’ll need tendin’ with needle and thread anyhow.”

Frodo offered her and Bilbo mugs of broth and they settled into chairs around the table. 

“You don’t have to do that, Bell. I’m sure Frodo and I can manage,” Bilbo replied.

Bell grinned. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Mister Bilbo, but I’ve seen yer sewin’ an’ I’m thinkin’ Mr Gandalf would prefer mine. And Master Frodo, here, ain’t much further on than sewin’ a button.”

“I think you’re right,” Bilbo chuckled. “If it’s alright with you, I’ll let you do the repairs. I will gladly recompense you for your efforts.”

Bell smiled at her husband. “Bless you, sir. But I’ve got so much washin’ and repairs with our brood that one more set of clothes won’t make no difference.”

“Talkin’ of our brood, I think we’d best be gettin’ back to ‘em, Bell, lass. You know how Mari plays up when Daisy tries to put her to bed.” Hamfast grabbed his cap and placed his empty mug in the sink and Bell let Frodo help her into her now dry cloak. As she allowed herself to be walked down the hall she gave Bilbo instructions.

“Don’t you go lettin’ that Mr Gandalf out of his bed afore tomorrow eve, and then only to sit by the fire for a bit. If he tries to go too far just ye remind him I’ve got all his clothes. Hobbiton is too respectable a place for folks to go stridin’ around in their nothin’s.” She winked. “I’ll bring ‘em back teatime.”

Bilbo held the door open for Bell and Hamfast. As soon as they stepped outside Hamfast took his wife’s arm to steady her against the gusting wind but still she turned to shout one last word over her shoulder. “If he takes to fever send for me.”

“I will, Bell. And thank you both. Please let Arty know that I’ll be popping around tomorrow morning to pay him for the lodging of Gandalf’s horse.”

Hamfast tugged at the peak of his cap before turning himself and Bell for the warmth of number three, Bagshot Row. 

Bilbo watched for some moments as his neighbours struggled against the wind and rain before closing Bag End’s strong door on the wild elements. “Brrrrrrrr. It’s a raw night, Frodo lad. Let’s have a nice hot cup of tea and another scone before we go to bed.”


	20. Gandalf the Quilted

Frodo yawned, stretched, and then blinked as his ears registered two voices coming from the kitchen down the hall. Had he just heard his uncle he would probably have rolled over and claimed another hour’s sleep. Bilbo Baggins was a long-time bachelor and appeared to have grown so used to his own company over the years that he had taken to holding conversations with himself. It was a habit that worried Frodo when first he came to live at Bag End but now he recognised it as his uncle simply thinking aloud, rather than living up to the epithet of Mad Baggins.

But the voice replying to Bilbo this morning did not belong to Bilbo. The creaking of the apple tree outside Frodo’s window brought memory of last night’s visitor. The other voice, deep and gruff, was Gandalf the wizard. There was a wizard residing in Bag End! Frodo threw back the covers, donned his dressing gown, collected his water jug and hurried to the kitchen.

“Well, of course I had intended to arrive tomorrow but there were so many people in Bree that one could find not a moment’s peace. So I cut short my visit to the Prancing Pony and set out early. And well it was that I did. The Brandywine had risen almost to the level of the bridge when I crossed and the Bounders were too busy helping the Brandybuck clan to sandbank the lower smials to be overly inquisitive about me.” Gandalf paused to draw deeply on his pipe.

“Many of the Bounders tend to treat the title as an honorific rather than a duty, I’m afraid. Ham Bolger must be ninety, if he’s a day. If he ever thought to challenge anyone they could probably just step around him.” Bilbo poured hot water into the teapot.

“Good morning.” Frodo paused in the kitchen doorway, awed again by the person of Gandalf the Grey.

“Ahh. You’re awake at last. The boiler is full if you want some wash water.” Bilbo smiled at his nephew as he stirred the pot. “If you care to wait a while I’m just making some tea. You can join us for first breakfast. I’ve warmed the last of those scones from yesterday.”

“That would be nice . . . if Mister Gandalf doesn’t mind. I don’t want to interrupt anything.” Despite his words Frodo set his empty jug on the table and pulled up a chair before Gandalf could send him away.

“Oh, you’re not interrupting. We were only chatting over a pipe. And plain ‘Gandalf’ will do. I have always considered that Mister sounded a bit too prosaic for a wizard. One is expected to at least appear to be a little out of the ordinary.” Gandalf winked at Bilbo, who had pulled up his own chair and now chuckled as he began to pour tea into two mugs and a battered tankard.

“Gandalf, you could not pull off ‘prosaic’ if you tried for a year. Especially dressed like that,” Bilbo replied with raised brows.

For the first time Frodo noted that the elderly wizard was draped in two patchwork quilts from the big bed. He appeared to have wrapped one about his body, just beneath his surprisingly muscular arms and then draped another over his shoulders like a cloak. The effect was anything but prosaic and more than a little comical.

Gandalf accepted the tankard, his bushy eyebrows rising in mock affront. “I thought I looked rather dashing.”

Frodo hid a grin, stirring honey and milk into his own mug as Bilbo replied, “Just so long as you weren’t considering actually doing any dashing. I’m not sure that outfit will stay put with any sudden moves. You wouldn’t want to go shocking the good folk of Hobbiton.”

Gandalf took a large swallow of his tea before selecting a couple of scones and appropriating the butter dish. “If Bell Gamgee is a sample of the rest of the folk in Hobbiton I suspect I would shock few.” He flexed his injured arm a little gingerly but easily enough. “A formidable lady.”

Frodo stepped in to protect she whom he had come to consider a favourite aunt. “Mistress Gamgee is very kind when you get to know her. She’s just not one for what she calls, ‘airs and graces’.” 

“Then we should rub along well enough, for neither am I.” Gandalf popped an entire buttered scone into his mouth and chewed appreciatively, even as he narrowed his keen eyes at Frodo.

The youngster squirmed a little, rather wishing that he had not drawn attention to himself and discovering that he was unable to meet that gaze for too long. It was as though the wizard had climbed into his mind and was rummaging around in all the dark corners. Not a comfortable feeling at all. He decided to try a distraction. “What brings you to the Shire this time?”

Gandalf smiled and Frodo noted his eyes twinkling. “Isn’t a visit to my favourite burglar reason enough?”

Bilbo snorted. “I’m no dragon to be flattered. You told me you were passing through.” His eyes narrowed. “But you never mentioned where you were passing through to.”

Gandalf swallowed another scone and washed it down with a good mouthful of tea. Frodo refilled his tankard. “I am on my way to Mithlond, actually.”

“The Grey Havens? You’re not thinking of leaving our shores I hope. I shall miss Gandalf’s fireworks… as well as his good company,” Bilbo commented in mild surprise.

“No, no. I shall not be leaving Middle Earth for a while, yet.” Frodo squirmed a little, finding himself the subject of another of the wizard’s deep glances but Gandalf continued. “I deliver a supply of fireworks to them every few years.”

“Now, whatever would elves want with fireworks?” Bilbo mused. “Not that they aren’t rather entertaining,” he added hastily.

“They’re useful for ships to signal for help. Even elven ships can founder in bad weather.”

Frodo could not hold back his surprise. “But elves are so wise and clever!”

“Indeed but, clever as they are, they are not all powerful. Even elves make mistakes.” Gandalf frowned and knocked the ashes of his pipe into a conveniently placed ashtray. Frodo stood to fetch the tobacco jar for him.

“You should have noticed that, Frodo lad. I’ve told you enough of their tales over the years.” Bilbo shook his grey curls. “Sometimes great wisdom only seems to produce even greater mistakes.” He nodded to Gandalf. “Present company excepted of course.”

Now it was Gandalf’s turn to snort. “And I am not a dragon either, Bilbo Baggins. I have made many mistakes and will, doubtless, make many more.”

Frodo filled his water jug from the boiler. “I’m going for my wash, Uncle. Then I shall help you with second breakfast.” Frodo was learning all manner of interesting things this morning, and if he made the fastest ablutions since he was a faunt Bilbo made no comment.

-0-

The storm seemed to have cleared the air and they were blessed with one of autumn’s rare warm and sunny days. It took some time for everything to dry out but by mid-afternoon the occupants of Bag End were all sitting beneath the oak tree atop the hill, their tea spread upon a blanket. 

They had been playing, “spot the hobbit” for a couple of hours. The name of the game had been coined by Gandalf and he was winning. The sight of a very large ‘man’, draped casually in two brightly coloured patchwork quilts and sprawled upon the lawn, was something not seen by many hobbits before. Indeed, it would be fair to say that it had never been seen by any hobbit before. Consequently, many came to gawp. 

Now, hobbits are very good at remaining unobserved when they wish but once Gandalf, as Bilbo put it, ‘Got his eye in’, he became very good at spotting the occasional head poking above a hedge or peering around a tree. Of course, Frodo and Bilbo, being hobbits themselves, were well aware of any tricks employed. So for a while the game had run neck and neck. Now Frodo suspected that the wizard had been holding back for in the last half hour he had run far ahead in points.

Frodo was about to announce that he had just spotted Ted Sandyman when there was a loud, “Ouch” and Ted leapt up, red faced, and ran off. Bilbo chuckled. “Gandalf, you are supposed to just point them out, not get them to point themselves out.”

The wizard’s bushy brows rose in mock innocence, an expression he seemed to employ rather too frequently. “Can I help it if he was sitting beneath a particularly large and ripe apple? You are surely not suggesting that I had a hand in its fall?”

Bilbo did not deign to reply, taking a bite of his ham sandwich instead.

Everyone looked up as Bell and Sam Gamgee came toiling over the brow of the hill, a large wicker basket carried between them. “Well, now. That’s what all the comin’s and goin’s are about,” she announced. “Ye’ll be the talk of the Ivy Bush this evenin’.”

When Frodo would have jumped up to help her Bell waved him back. Once the basket was set down it was easy to see that it contained Gandalf’s clothes, folded carefully and, Frodo suspected, cleaner than they had been for many a year.

“And wouldn’t that be unusual? Hello Bell. Why don’t you and Sam sit down. There’s plenty for all if Sam wouldn’t mind running down to the kitchen for extra cups and plates,” announced Bilbo with a smile. “We refilled the teapot only minutes ago.”

Bell surveyed the repast and, obviously having decided it was at least as good as any she could provide, sat upon a corner of the rug, arranging her ample skirts. Her little son only stood, wide eyed, completely lost in the vision of the wizard. Bell tapped his arm gently. “Off ye go, lad. You know where Mr Bilbo keeps his crocks. And don’t ye go breakin’ ‘em.” Sam ran off down the slope toward the kitchen door as fast as his little legs would carry him.

“Afternoon to ye, Mr Gandalf.” Once settled Bell graced Gandalf with an assessing look. “I thought I told ye to keep to yer bed for the day. Yer colour’s better at least. How’s the arm?”

Gandalf grinned widely. “As good as new, thank you Mistress Gamgee. You have a healing touch. Oh, and just ‘Gandalf’ will do.”

Bell’s cheeks flushed. “I only did what was needed. Them stitches should stay in about a week, then ye’ll need to find someone to cut ‘em out. Although who ye’ll find out in the wild I don’t know. And if yer to be Gandalf I reckon ye can call me Bell.”

“If I set out this evening I should reach The Haven’s by then. I’m sure Cirdan or one of his folk will take care of the stitches for me.”

Sam returned with cups and plates as Bell sniffed. “Well, I don’t know this Cirdan fellow but ye just make sure he has clean hands.”

Bilbo sputtered and Frodo had to slap him on the back. Gandalf only nodded his head to the lady. “I shall be very certain to check.” He lifted his tankard of tea in salute. Bilbo kept a small selection of larger crocks especially for his guest. They were mismatched to be sure but at least it ensured that Gandalf got more than two swallows from his cup.

Frodo poured two more cups of tea, noting that it was the second-best china, and added extra milk to Sam’s. Bilbo had been trying for years to convince Bell Gamgee that she was welcome to use the best china but she would have none of it, insisting that it was not for the likes of her and she’d be afraid of breakages.

Bell selected a ham sandwich for herself and a large piece of pie for her son. Politeness would have suggested a smaller piece but feeding a growing lad could be an expensive matter and no hobbit matron turned down the opportunity to fill her child at anothers’ table if there was an offer. “Doctor Brockleby’s home, by the way, if ye want him to take a look at that arm afore ye go.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary Bell and I expect he’ll be needing some sleep. How is Mistress Fennelly, by the way?” Bilbo asked after a sip of his tea.

“’twas twins, as expected. Two bonnie lasses. Bert’s as pleased as punch I hear. No doubt he’ll be wettin’ the bairn’s heads in the Ivy Bush tonight. At least that’s what most of the folk in Hobbiton are hopin’. There’ll be a few thick heads in the mornin’, I’ll be bound.”

Bilbo chuckled. “I have no doubt. Do they have names yet?”

Bell sniffed. “Aye. Flora let Bert choose. And she’s so smitten with that husband of hers that she let it stand.”

When she did not elaborate Frodo coaxed, “But what are their names?”

Bell pursed her lips. “Daffy and Dilly. I ask ye, what kind of names are they? Two lasses sharin’ one flower . . . it don’t seem right to me.” 

The males just shrugged, unwilling to comment on Bell’s firmly held belief that daffodilly was not a flower to be split between two people. Bilbo broke the sudden silence. “Can we not tempt you to stay a little longer, Old Friend?”

Gandalf shook his head. “Sadly, no. Not on this occasion. I must be at The Havens within the week as there are two ships ready to sail even now. They only await the supplies I carry.” He reached aside to examine the contents of the basket, pulling out one of his robes. “Well! Bell, you have surpassed yourself. These clothes could be brand new. Not only have you removed the stains but you have re-stitched the hems and seams. How can I ever repay you for such kindness?”

“I’ll not say ‘twere an easy job. I don’t think them clothes have seen needle an’ thread for many a year. It took me an’ Daisy hours an’ there’s a couple of patches I’m not happy with. The material’s old and I’m not sure how long they’ll hold. I’ll hope you forgive me if they don’t.”

Gandalf raised a hand to forestall further apology. “Dear Lady, you have done a marvellous job. Please also convey my thanks to your good daughter.”

“I will an’ thank ye.”

Frodo held back a grin. If only Daisy Gamgee’s temperament was as neat as her stitches.

“Frodo, lad, when you’ve finished tea, would you nip down to Arty Sedgeburry with some money and ask if he can have the cart ready at sundown?” Bilbo fished in his pocket for some coins and flipped them to his nephew who caught them easily. “That should cover food and board for the horse and a little extra for any who helped last night. He’ll probably need help this evening too. Tell him I’ll pay any extra when I see him in the Ivy Bush later.”

“I’ll pop down again before sunset to help him with the tack,” Frodo commented as he pocketed the money.

Sam spoke up for the first time. “Your cart’s in the field at the bottom o’ the hill, Mr Gandalf, sir. I’ve been standin’ guard all mornin’. Someone said as how you could have fireworks in there an’ then everyone wanted to take a peep.”

“Half the village has been in that field this mornin’. Some o’ the bigger lads weren’t payin’ much attention to Sam. But don’t you go worryin’ none, sir,” Bell added. “My Ham’s taken over now. He’s got the afternoon free, so later he can help Arty with the horse as well.”

“It seems I am greatly indebted to the Gamgee family.” With those words Gandalf took Sam’s hand and dropped into it a huge, multi coloured marble. Where he had produced it from none of them wished to speculate. Gandalf was a wizard, after all.

Little Sam’s eyes grew as round as saucers and he wiped a hand on his shirt before picking up the beautiful thing and holding it to the light. The coloured swirl within seemed to move in the sunlight. He blinked when his mother nudged his ribs with a gentle elbow. “Thank ye, Sir. I aint never seen one as pretty,” he offered hastily before slipping it deep into his pocket. Frodo suspected that was one marble that would never be entered into a game.

-0-

That evening, in the Ivy Bush, the birth of twins was almost overshadowed by talk of the visit by Gandalf the Grey. Bert Fennelly was not too disappointed however. 

Everyone in Hobbiton had turned out to see the wizard depart and Gandalf the Grey had made a point of congratulating Bert, even going so far as to bless the babes’ with long life and good health. Not that proud Bert had expected his lusty lasses to have aught else, for they were already running their mama ragged with their demand for milk.

But what really made him preen was when Gandalf reached the edge of the village. There he paused to wave and, in the gathering dusk, a line of sparks shot heavenward, exploding into a shimmering bunch of bright yellow daffodils. When the image finally faded cart and wizard were gone.


	21. Puddles and Perambulations

“Mornin’ Master Frodo. Tis a grand mornin’.” Hamfast Gamgee touched his forehead in greeting as he climbed to his feet in the middle of Bag End’s vegetable plot. Young Sam Gamgee jumped up too, grinning as he saw Frodo roll his eyes.

“It had the makings of a good one, Master Gamgee, until I burned the toast.” He lifted his mug in rueful salute. “I have been banished from the kitchen this morning.” As he spoke, Bag End’s kitchen door was thrown open and the unmistakeable odour of burnt toast wafted toward them.

Hamfast wrinkled his nose and knelt down, making a small furrow for Sam to drop in some seeds. “Aye. Mister Bilbo was never in his best temper afore second breakfast.”

Sam concentrated upon not sewing the seeds too close together. “I thought you and Mister Bilbo was goin’ to Great Smials today.”

Hamfast frowned. “And, if you’ll excuse me sayin’ so, Young Master, your uncle seems a mite put out by just the loss of a couple of slices of bread.” 

Frodo took a sip of his tea. “I’m afraid my mishap has made us late and that’s another reason for my banishment. We were going to have first breakfast here and second breakfast at the Ivy Bush. But by the time we reach the Ivy now they’ll have finished serving breakfasts.”

Now Hamfast chuckled. “So now you’ve missed first breakfast completely and will have to take second breakfast at home afore you can set out. I can see why Mister Bilbo would be a bit upset.”

Sam straightened, his features puzzled. “Da, if they didn’t have first breakfast, on account of the burnt toast, won’t that make second breakfast, first breakfast?”

“Never you mind, lad. Get on with coverin’ them beetroot seeds afore the birds get ‘em. Yon robin’s a cheeky chap and would steel ‘em from your hand if you let him.” Hamfast nodded to where said bird was sitting boldly upon the handle of their spade at the end of the row, his black beady eyes fixed upon Sam’s every move.

At that moment Bilbo appeared at the kitchen door, hands upon hips. “Frodo! Come in and set the table or it will be lunch time before we leave.”

With a twinkling grin at the two Gamgees, Frodo spun about and jogged back across the garden. “Coming, Bilbo.”

Sam watched. “Do you think Mister Bilbo will be cross for long?” He had grown rather fond of Master Frodo.

“No lad,” his father replied. “Mr Bilbo’s temper is like a spring storm. Wild for a bit but soon blown over. Young Master Frodo didn’t sound too concerned to me. Don’t you worry. By the time they’re on the road they’ll be full of the joys of spring again.”

Hamfast was right. Once Bilbo actually had some breakfast inside him, whether it be first or second, his humour improved somewhat and the pair were striding down the lane before elevenses.

Frodo waved to Bell Gamgee, who was washing the front windows of number three Bagshot Row, but Bilbo hurried them on. “Come along, lad. If we make it a brisk walk we can have elevenses at the Ivy Bush.”

“Bilbo, we've only just finished breakfast. You surely aren't hungry again already.”

“Of course not. But by the time we reach the Ivy we shall have worked up a thirst and it would be rude to have a half and not have a bacon sandwich to go with it, now would it not?”

Frodo giggled. It was said that tweens were bottomless pits when it came to food but Bilbo could give many a tween a run for his money. Bilbo once ascribed his great appetite to the fact that rations had been short for at least part of his journey with the dwarves, so he made sure to get plenty of food nowadays, “To make up for it, you know.” Frodo was always amazed that his uncle's expanding waistline never seemed to slow him down and it was not long before they were striding across the bridge and into the village.

“Well now, if it aint the grand master of Bag End. Where are you off to in such a hurry, Mister Baggins?” Ted Sandyman was sitting outside his mill, smoking a pipe and gnawing on a cheese sandwich. Frodo rather got the impression, from his tone, that 'Mister' was not Ted's first choice of title. The miller was often known to refer to Bilbo as 'Mad Baggins'.

Whether he was aware of the appellation or not Bilbo only smiled brightly and replied, “None of your business, Mister Sandyman.” He made great emphasis of the 'Mister' and, in a quiet aside to his nephew added, “Any speed beyond 'stop' would be considered a hurry by Ted. I don't think he has walked any farther than Bywater in his entire life.”

Once over the bridge they came into the village square, where the market was in full flow. Most of the traders were local but sometimes a small group of dwarves would appear, selling children's toys and cheap jewellery. Occasionally traders came from other villages in the Shire, bringing cheese or honey. Today Frodo noted that all the traders were local.   
The Ivy Bush was doing its usual brisk market day trade but Bilbo and Frodo found seats in a small corner and ordered Bilbo's yearned for beer and bacon sandwiches. It was known throughout the three farthings that Borden Brewer served a grand bacon butty, the bread soft, warmed in the oven and dripping with butter. Half an hour later Bilbo wiped butter from his chin and sat back with a satisfied sigh. “Well, Frodo, shall we go on?”

Frodo grinned as he licked the last of the beer from his lips. “I think we'd better if we are to make Bywater for lunch.” He patted his waistline. “Although whether I will have room for it after that sandwich is another matter.”

Bilbo stood, lifting his walking staff and shrugging his pack onto his back. “Nonsense, lad. We will soon walk that off. Come on.” Frodo barely had time to hoist his own pack and staff before they were out of the door and back into the market day crowds.

“Well, now. Bilbo Baggins. I've not seen ye for many a week.” 

Bilbo rolled his eyes at this further delay but turned with a wide grin when he recognised the voice. “Hello, Pansy! I've been out and about as often as usual and it is good to see you about too. How is your sister these days?” He leaned upon his staff as the flow of market customers parted around them as though they were rocks in a stream. 

The old hobbitess' wrinkles arranged themselves into a bright smile and, despite her hunched back and gnarled fingers, her green eyes twinkled. “She's right enough, although that nephew of mine is still not settled.”

Frodo mumbled an apology to an annoyed gaffer, who tried to steer a barrow around them, but Bilbo and Pansy seemed totally oblivious to the obstruction they were causing in the middle of the thoroughfare. Bilbo continued good-naturedly, “That maid should get her father to tie the lad up and sit him down in front of the Mayer. I'm sure Penley Whitfoot will marry them fast enough and the whole of Hobbiton will attend, just to make certain the deed is done at last.”

Pansy gave a loud cackle. “He could have a worse task for his first term.” She glanced aside at Frodo and nodded toward their packs. “And where are the pair of you off to? Not going off to chase more dragons I hope.”

Bilbo shook his head. “Indeed not. My dragon hunting days are over. Frodo and I are on our way to Tuckborough. We've not seen little Peregrin since a few days after he was born and that's almost three years ago.”

“Well, ye'd best get on, then. Or ye'll not arrive afore dark.” Pansy nudged Frodo, knowingly. “Although, knowin' yer uncle, by the time ye've stopped along the way for lunch and high tea ye'll probably still not arrive until the stars are out.”

Frodo grinned, despite being jostled from behind by a rather large lady with a heavily laden basket filled with, from the smell of it, fish. “You may be right.”

Pansy turned away, only pausing to call back, “Ye'd best get a move on, lads. Butter Rumble says it's goin' to rain later. I hope ye packed a cloak.” She was swallowed by the crowd before Bilbo could reply.

“Did you pack a cloak, Bilbo?” Frodo asked with some alarm, knowing that he certainly had not.

Bilbo shook his head, with a confident, “We'll be well on our way before the rain arrives. And it's only water, when all is said and done. It won't do you any harm.”

Frodo was not convinced. Buttercup Rumble's arthritis was the best predictor of rain that Hobbiton had. If she said it was going to rain it usually did. He scanned the cloudless sky with some trepidation as they made their way out of the market and down the road to Bywater. But off to the left the pool mirrored a bright blue sky and after a while Frodo pushed Widow Rumble's prediction to the back of his mind.

Lunch was taken at the Green Dragon in Bywater barely two hours later. Bilbo ordered a meat pie with vegetables but Frodo settled for bread, cheese and pickles and watched in bemused silence as Bilbo cleaned his plate.

“Are you sure you don't want anything else, lad. There are no more decent eateries until we reach Tookbank and that's near on five miles away. The Frog and Bucket doesn't serve food.”

Frodo grinned. “I have eaten plenty, Bilbo. I promise not to keel over from starvation before we get to Great Smials.”

Bilbo only collected his walking staff. “Very well. But don't say I didn't warn you.”

Soon they were strolling down the Bywater road and in the distance Frodo could see the dark line of hawthorn that marked the edges of the Great East Road. When they reached the junction it took all of Frodo's persuasive powers to prevent Bilbo stepping into the Frog and Bucket for a swift half. Instead they turned left onto a broad, flat road, kept in good repair by order of the Mayor and bordered upon both sides by ditches and sharp hawthorn hedges. Already, those thick hedges showed a pale green haze of spring buds.  
They made good time, although the hard metal of the road was not as comfortable under foot as the grassy lanes of Hobbiton. As they stepped out Bilbo taught his nephew an old walking song so the time passed pleasantly, with few others on the road. It was with some surprise, therefore that Frodo glanced up to see that the sky had turned from blue to a pale pearl white which was rapidly darkening to grey.

“How much further is it to the Stock turn off, Bilbo?”

“Just on that bend ahead. Why?”

Frodo pointed upward with his staff. “I think Widow Rumble was right, after all. It looks like we're in for some rain.”

Bilbo pursed his lips. “We'd best get a move on, then.”

They picked up the pace but after turning left at the junction they had only walked for a few minutes more before the first fat drops of rain began to fall. 

“Oh, bother,” Bilbo announced.

Frodo smiled mischievously. “It's only water, remember?”

“It's not the rain that bothers me. It's the mud it will create.” Bilbo grimaced, hunching his shoulders against the downpour. Frodo followed without further comment. If there was one thing guaranteed to anger Bilbo it was having his carefully selected outfit ruined and, having annoyed his uncle once today, Frodo was sensible enough to hold his tongue.

The rain dropped from deluge to downpour only half an hour later but the two travellers hardly noticed for, by then, they were already soaked to the skin. Bilbo scowled down at his feet, where the grey colour of his foot-hair was lost beneath a layer of dark mud. Indeed, his feet, ankles and calves were covered in the sticky stuff to the point where he began to wonder whether they would ever be clean again. He could not remember having been this filthy since his travels with Thorin and company. And it was just too bad that he should be arriving thus at one of the grandest establishments in the Shire.

Suddenly, Bilbo heard a yelp, followed by a loud splash and he spun about. There, spread-eagled upon his back, was Frodo, in the centre of a large puddle that Bilbo had only just managed to skirt without incident some moments earlier. It seemed Frodo had not been so lucky. For a moment Bilbo thought that the lad was having trouble catching his breath and that was no wonder, having landed hard upon his pack. Then he realised that his nephew's strange convulsions were actually caused by laughter.

Bilbo sighed and reached down to help the lad at least make it to a sitting position. But the mud was slippery and Frodo was laughing so hard that he was making very little effort to help himself. It was almost inevitable, therefore, that Bilbo should also lose his footing and land on his bottom at Frodo's side in the huge puddle. This only made Frodo laugh even louder and for a stunned few moments Bilbo could only splutter in indignation. Then imagination provided his mind with a picture of the two of them, head to toe in mud and sitting in the middle of the road like a couple of mischievous faunts. Soon he was joining his laughter to Frodo's guffaws, so helpless that they had to lean upon each other.  
Two hours later, in almost full dark, two muddy and soaked travellers battered upon the huge round door of Great Smials. 

There was a great deal of muttering to be heard through the stout barrier before it swung open on well oiled hinges to reveal the sparkling, tiled floor of the Thain's entrance hall. The ancient servant's eyes widened when he saw the state of the two visitors and he pointed immediately to a large tray of clean water set by the door. “Who shall I say is calling, sirs?” he asked in a voice that seemed to form around some large invisible plum in his mouth.

Bilbo took a perverse delight in letting his muddy pack land with a loud splat upon the clean floor. “Please tell Master Palladin that Bilbo and Frodo Baggins have arrived. I believe we are expected.” 

“Please wait here, sirs,” the servant instructed in a tone that almost begged them not to spread any more mud upon his nice clean floors.

Frodo waited politely while Bilbo dabbled his feet in the basin and by the time he had attended to his own, Paladin arrived. “Good grief! What have you been rolling in? You look like a couple of drowned rats. Did you not bring cloaks?” he demanded as he saw for himself the state of his guests.

Bilbo had to bite back a chuckle. “We set out in a bit of a hurry.”

“My fault. I had a bit of a mishap with first breakfast,” Frodo explained as he blew rain drops off the end of his nose.

Knowing better than to ask for a more detailed explanation until his guests were dry, Paladin led them to one of the many guest suites, heedless of the line of muddy footprints they left in their wake. There was only so much mud one could wash off in a basin of cold water after all. “I'll send some lads with baths for you and tell Eglantine to hold supper until you're ready,” he announced as he left. “Join us in the family parlour when you're ready.”

It was clear that the hobbit who had answered the door had leapt into action before his master's instructions had been relayed for, within minutes, the promised bath's arrived and the two visitors peeled off their wet and muddy clothes with some relief. They were removed to be cleaned and fresh ones promised, there being sufficient residents in Great Smials to be able to provide temporary clothing. Bilbo was soon sitting, wrapped in a blanket, before a very welcoming fire. 

Frodo stepped from behind the dressing screen, towel draped low about his hips while he dried his hair with another. At that precise moment there was a light knock and the door opened to admit no other than May Gamgee, her arms piled with an assortment of garments. Frodo dodged back behind the screen but not before a bright blush flashed in May's cheeks.

The stunned silence was broken by Bilbo's soft chuckle. “Hello, May, lass. Just pop the clothes down over there while Frodo makes himself respectable.”

From the safety of the screen Frodo glared at Bilbo, even as he threw a blanket about himself, knowing that his own cheeks were as pink as May's. He cleared his throat as he re-appeared. “Hello, May. It's good to see you.”

May bobbed a little curtsy. “It's good to see you, too, Master Frodo.”

Bilbo swallowed another chuckle as both youngsters blushed even brighter at the unintentional innuendo.

May set down the clothes and all but bolted for the door, pausing only long enough to call over her shoulder, her accent thick with embarrassment, “The Master and Mistress is waitin' for ye in the family dinin' room when yer ready, sirs.”

Bilbo gave up the battle and let out a loud guffaw as he stood to examine the clothing and Frodo's glare dissolved easily enough with the prospect of a good meal. All hobbits set a good table but Eglantine Took's dinners were not to be missed.

Half an hour later Bilbo and Frodo stepped into the noisy dining room. With three pre-tween girls in the family it could only be so, particularly with a two year old Peregrin protesting loudly about being seated in his high chair. His wails could be heard all the way down the hall and a frustrated Paladin was trying to bend his little son in the middle with no success at all. Peregrin was holding himself ramrod straight, his little face a bright beetroot red that did not sit well with his golden curls.

Bilbo winced. Long used to the peace and quiet of Bag End, he found visiting his relations in Tuckborough or Buckland a little stressful, until he sampled the food, that is. After all, what hobbit did not enjoy a meal that he had not have to prepare for himself?

Having finished seating the girls, Eglantine held out her arms for her son and Paladin relinquished the lad with some relief. Peregrin ceased his wailing at once and Paladin gave a frustrated huff as his son submitted meekly to being placed in the chair he had taken such a dislike to but minutes before.

Spotting their guests, Paladin tugged his waistcoat straight, and advanced with a smile. “Hello again, Bilbo, Frodo. You're looking a bit more the thing.”

Bilbo looked down a little ruefully at his brown trousers, yellow jacket, blue waistcoat and red paisley cravat. “Not my usual style but they are at least clean and dry.”

Frodo grinned, having had to resort to blue trousers, pink shirt and green waistcoat himself. The waistcoat he had left open for it strained across his chest and only just reached his waist.

Paladin led Bilbo to a place at his right and directed Frodo to a seat between Pearl and Pimpernel. Pimpernel grinned a greeting and Pearl nodded aloofly, in the way only an almost tween lass was capable of. Frodo squirmed a little uncomfortably, wishing he had been seated closer to Bilbo and Paladin. He was feeling a little outnumbered by the female side of the family, with little Peregrin too young to assist him at this point.

Eglantine frowned at her eldest as she rang the bell and Pearl dropped her gaze to her plate. The door opened to admit a string of maids, laden with platters and dishes. It was usual for family to serve themselves so the dishes were placed in the centre of the table. Soon they were being passed from hand to hand and the conversation began to flow as good food began to loosen tongues.

As the main course was being cleared and the deserts arrived Frodo looked up to find a pair of hazel eyes staring intently. He smiled and little Peregrin grinned broadly. “Hello Pippin.”

Pippin offered him a piece of soggy, slavered-on bread and Frodo shook his head. “That's alright, Pip. I'm going to have some pudding soon. You finish that and then you can have some too.”

Eglantine smiled at her guest, even as she steered her youngest's hand back toward his mouth and used her napkin to wipe drool and other less identifiable substances from Pippin's little pointed chin. “Your cousin, Frodo, doesn't want your half chewed bread,” she assured him with a smile.

Pippin was a generous little soul, however, so once he had taken a nibble he held it out again with a shouted, “Fow!”

Frodo chuckled and that was all the encouragement the faunt needed. He gave a bright little giggle that had the whole table grinning in response. “I think he's taken a shine to you, Frodo,” Paladin commented. “You don't fancy a job entertaining him tomorrow do you?”

His question was met with a vigorous shake of Frodo's dark head and a hasty, “I think he would soon tire of my company.”

“Nonsense lad. You've a good way with youngsters. Little Sam Gamgee has been following you about like a shadow ever since you moved into Bag End.” Bilbo helped himself to some plum duff and Paladin passed the custard jug.

“Sam is a little older than Pippin. I don't think Pip would be very interested in learning to read at his age.”

Eglantine placed a little bowl of cooled custard on her son's tray and concentrated upon keeping his fingers out of the dish as she spooned some for him. “He can't read yet, that's true. But he does like to listen to stories before bed.”

Frodo selected some rice pudding. “If he wants exciting tales Bilbo is our storyteller.”

“Oh, I don't think Pippin would be much interested in dragons and trolls,” Bilbo replied airily.

Eglantine frowned. “And I hardly think those are the sort of tales to be filling his head with just before sleep.”

Bilbo widened his eyes in what was only partially feigned affront.

“His favourite tale is one about a duck and a frog. It's from one of our old story books,” Pimpernel offered around a mouthful of plum duff and custard.

“Don't speak with your mouth full, Pimpernel.” Eglantine was a stickler for table manners and Frodo hurriedly removed his elbow from the table.

The conversation changed direction and Frodo forgot all about Pippin's love of stories until Eglantine gathered up her faunt. “Come along, Frodo. Time you learned how to deal with bairns. You'll have some of your own one day so you may as well learn now.”

Frodo shot a pleading look to Bilbo but the older hobbit only waved him off with a twinkling grin. “Off you go, lad.” No doubt he was relieved not to have been set the task himself.

Pearl and Pimpernel sniggered and Pervinca looked from one to the other in confusion, blissfully unaware of the undercurrents of adult conversation.


	22. Friends and Family

“Oh, Pip!” Frodo jumped back as Pippin smacked his hands gleefully in the bath water, showering mother and cousin alike in soapy suds. Eglantine laughed as Frodo used a towel to wipe his face and clothing. “It's alright for you, Aunt. I've only just got dry from earlier,” Frodo complained with a wry grin.

“Don't worry, lad. We've got plenty of spare clothes and towels. A little water never did anyone any harm.”

“That's what Bilbo said about the rain and look where that got us.” 

Eglantine reached down to lift her squirming son from the water and Pippin's face began to crumple. “Oh no you don't,” she asserted as she buried him in a thick, thirsty towel. “Now where's my little Pip?” She tweaked a corner aside to reveal his giggling face and declared, “There he is!” This was obviously a regular bath time game for Pippin crowed with laughter as his mama covered him again. “Where is he?”

Pippin grabbed the towel, dropping it himself with an impish grin. “There he is!” Eglantine declared as she began to dry his hair. It took several minutes to pad his lower regions and wrangle him into his nightgown and then, to Frodo's dismay, Eglantine thrust her son at him. “Fow!” Pippin crowed with delight, clinging to him like a limpet, grabbing a handful of Frodo's curls and trying to stuff them into his mouth.

Frodo winced, disentangling tiny fingers. “Come on, Pip. Time for bed.”

“Tory!” Pippin announced indignantly and Eglantine steared Frodo to a rocking chair set beside the high sided cot and handed him a small and colourful book that had obviously seen better days. He settled in the deeply cushioned chair and sat Pippin in his lap.

“Once upon a time there was a little green frog who lived in a farmer's pond . . .”

Half an hour later Eglantine turned back the brightly coloured bedding as Frodo whispered, “And the frog and the duck lived happily ever after.”

Peregrin was fast asleep and Frodo bent to kiss blond curls, inhaling the sweet fragrance of lavender and faunt. Eglantine lifted her son from his cousin's arms, noting the softness in bright blue eyes with a knowing smile. Frodo watched as she tucked in her bairn and then she turned to him with a nod. “You'll do, lad. Give it a few more years and you'll be best friends, I've no doubt.”

Frodo followed her from the room as Pervinca entered to seek her own bed. The two youngest girls shared the nursery with Pippin, Pearl only recently having been deemed old enough to have a room of her own. Pervinca reached up to give her mama a hug and received a kiss in return. Frodo was surprised when the lass hugged him too and he bent to kiss her cheek. It was a long time since he had experienced such family interaction and he cleared his throat as he felt tears prickle behind his eyes.

-0-

As spring weather is wont to do, after the rain of the previous day, the next morning dawned bright and sunny.

Bilbo sighed with pleasure as he smoothed the fine wool of his own waistcoat, newly returned from the laundry. He felt much more comfortable in his own carefully co-ordinated wardrobe. Frodo had to acknowledge that he too felt better in his green suit. At least he could fasten the waistcoat, although he noted that the sleeves of his shirt were a little shorter than was usual for Shire fashion. He was still growing and it was perhaps time to pay a visit to one of his aunts in Brandy Hall to have some new ones made.

Like Brandy Hall, breakfasts in Great Smials were an informal affair taken in the largest dining hall, which could seat all its residents at once if required. At breakfast time, however, visitors and family drifted in an out over the period of an hour, helping themselves from the many warming dishes set on a long board to one side of the hall.

Ferumbras having taken breakfast in his own rooms at his usual horrendously early hour, Paladin was presiding over the hall as he finished his own repast. Sitting at top-table with the farm steward, Pal beckoned them to places at his other side. As soon as they were seated May Gamgee appeared to fill their cups with tea. Traditionally, coffee was never served at breakfast in Great Smials. She smiled prettily at Bilbo, gaze dropping as she served Frodo.

Bilbo began to add milk and honey to his cup. “Good morning, May. How are you settling in here?”

May glanced at the Master's son, who smiled and nodded. “Very well, sir. I'm learnin' a lot and everyone's very friendly,” she replied with a smile of her own.

Paladin nodded. “May is a hard worker and seems to get on well with the other lasses.”

 

“I'm pleased to hear that. Your mother asked me to pass on your family's regards.” Bilbo stirred his tea.

“Thank you, sir. I hope I'm not too forward if I ask you to give her my love when you return? I'm afraid I haven't had time to write of late, what with the spring plantin'.” 

Bilbo's eyes widened as he sought the girl's scrubbed hands. “Surely they have not had you tending the fields!”

Paladin snorted. “Don't be a goose, Bilbo. What do you take me for? Eglantine would have my hide if I asked the smial staff to work in the fields. This isn't Hobbiton. Extra folk and family come from round about to help with the planting and they have to be fed and found beds. That means the indoor staff have their hands full. But May here is pulling her weight well enough.”

May blushed at the compliment, bobbing a little curtsy before bustling off to answer a call for more tea from another table.

Frodo buttered some toast. “When does the planting end? I think it's just finished around Hobbiton.”

Paladin nodded. “Aye, we're almost done here. In fact we would have almost had it yesterday, but for the heavens opening. I reckon two more days will do it. Then things will calm down a bit.”

Frodo kept one eye on May as she flitted about the large room. She had filled out again in the past year, in more places than her waistline, and her freckles did not contrast so sharply with her complexion now that her cheeks had regained their roses. The sandy curls that she had so often been teased about were now tamed into glossy ringlets that bounced pertly as she moved. Perhaps it was being away from home and having to fend for herself, but she seemed more mature. Even her way of speaking had changed, losing some of the contractions of her country roots.

In his turn, Bilbo kept one eye on his nephew. He suspected that Frodo would probably end up settling down with someone of more fire, but there was no denying that May Gamgee was growing into a comely lass. Seventeen was a bit young to be thinking about courting but Bell's brood had always been mature for their years and May was no exception.

-0-

“Good morning Aunt Eglantine.” Frodo finally tracked down his aunt in the nursery.

“Fow!” Pippin, who was sporting an alarmingly bright pink jumper, was sitting in the centre of a large, thick rug, surrounded by a the detritus of his morning's play. When he clambered onto unsteady feet and began to stumble his way to Frodo, Eglantine wisely swept everything out of his way.

Incredibly flattered by his little cousin's display of affection, Frodo dropped to his knees and held out his arms. Three more steps and he was clasping a wriggling Pippin, who placed an incredibly sloppy but loving kiss on his older cousin's cheek. “Hello, Pip.” Frodo grinned as he settled the faunt upon the rug at his side and used his sleeve to wipe slobber from his cheek.

Eglantine dropped her head to hide a smile. 

There was a chuckle from behind. “We were wondering when you would turn up.” Frodo turned to discover a grey haired matron sitting in a rocking chair, a large pile of knitting in her lap. “I knew once they'd met proper he wouldn't be able to stay away. Our Pippin draws people like flies to honey.”

Eglantine Took beamed. “I don't think you've met before. Frodo Baggins, this is Margery. Margery has been in charge of the Great Smials nursery since Pal was a faunt. Margery, this is Bilbo's nephew. Drogo and Primula's son.”

Margery's brown eyes narrowed and she fixed him with a gimlet gaze, pursing her lips. “It's good to see you've taken no harm from yesterday's adventures.” She sniffed as she started another row on her project. “Never understood this fascination Brandybucks have for water. It only ever leads to trouble. Your father learned that the hard way.”

Frodo felt anger rise. Ever since his parent's drowning he had been hearing similar comments and still they had the ability to make him see red.

Eglantine cleared her throat hurriedly but before she or Frodo could say anything Pippin, who had been watching his older cousin creating a tower with his building bricks, knocked over the edifice with a loud, delighted squeal. Frodo's ire melted into a giggle. “You little terror. I suppose I shall have to build that all over again,” he asserted with mock dismay.

Pippin gave a wide grin and held out a brick. “Fow, fix.”

Eglantine laughed. “Now you've done it, Frodo. He'll have you building towers all day.”

Frodo began to pile the bricks that Pippin solemnly handed him one by one. “I don't mind.”

“How are you liking Hobbiton,” Eglantine asked as she began to collect up some of the other toys scattered about them. “I expect it feels very different to Brandy Hall. Do you miss all your friends?”

Pippin crowed loudly as he toppled the bricks and Frodo patiently began to pile them again. “I do miss Fredegar and Merry but Bilbo has promised that we shall visit regularly.” He paused before adding, “I suppose it's the same for May Gamgee. Uncle Paladin says she's settling in well but I suppose, coming from a large family, that she misses her brother and sisters.”

Eglantine handed Frodo a stray brick that had rolled under the rocking chair. “I knew she had a large family in Hobbiton but I'm afraid I haven't had much time to talk to the girl. She seems to have made friends with her room mates, Primrose and Bluebell.” She smiled as Pippin knocked over Frodo's carefully constructed tower once more and helped corral the bricks. “I wonder if she'd like to visit home for a few days once the planting is done. I'm certain we could spare her and she can take her first year's wages home to her parents.”

“I'm sure she'd like to see her mother again and I know Bell misses her terribly.”

“Tom Carter is due the day after tomorrow. She could ride back to Hobbiton with him. I don't like the idea of a girl walking the Great East Road alone and I'll give him a couple of coppers for his trouble.”

Margery interjected dryly from her corner. “Mayhap Masters Bilbo and Frodo could do with the ride as well. That way, if it rains, they'll not get so muddy.”

Frodo grinned and rolled his eyes. “I'm told mud is good for the complexion.”

Margery was never at a loss for words, however. “Then you two must have the prettiest backsides in the Shire.” 

-0-

 

Two days later Tom Carter was feeling very cheerful. Carting packages did not bring in much money but passengers paid more and, if they were of the right sort, provided good company too. Bilbo and Frodo Baggins now, they were definitely the right sort. Before the cart wheels had left the courtyard the gents were singing one of Mister Bilbo's compositions, and young May Gamgee was joining in by the second chorus. Most hobbits can carry a tune but Master Frodo had a particularly fine voice and Bilbo persuaded him to sing a solo. If the lad noticed May Gamgee's admiring gaze he said nothing but Tom and Bilbo shared a smile.

At the Frog and Bucket they stopped off to stretch their legs and tend to nature's call. Whilst food was not a speciality of the house, the establishment was renowned for it's cider so, of course, Bilbo insisted that they all sit down for a half. As Bilbo offered to pay for all, Tom decided it would be rude to refuse. May was a little young for cider but Bilbo only winked when she pointed that out. “One half will do you no harm.” Frodo proved himself to be the perfect gentlehobbit, holding May's chair for her, and Bilbo suspected that her blush had very little to do with the warming effect of a mug of cider on a brisk spring day. 

When they climbed back onto the cart Bilbo moved up to sit with Tom and the two lit their pipes. That left Frodo and May amongst the parcels at the back. Even as he made small talk with Tom, Bilbo kept one ear tuned to the conversation behind him. For several minutes there was silence. Then two voices spoke at once.

“Are you looking forward to getting home, Master Frodo?/Are you looking forward to seeing your Ma again?”

That was followed by a chorus of embarrassed laughter. “I love visiting relatives but I've grown to enjoy the peace and quiet of Bag End. It was difficult at first, being used to all the noise and bustle of Brandy Hall, but now I love having space and time to myself, and Uncle Bilbo is very good company.”

Bilbo felt a warm glow within his chest, for he had always worried that life at Bag End, with a crochety old bachelor, would not suit the youngster.

“I can't imagine rattling around in that big smial. I like havin' family around me. It was bad enough when Hal and Ham left home and mayhap Daisy won't be far behind.” May rummaged in a basket at her side and offered Frodo an apple.

Frodo was a tween so he accepted readily. “I hope you don't mind that Sam showed me your letters. Are you really happy at Great Smials or are you putting a good face on it? Because I'm certain Bilbo can arrange for you to come home if you want to and the Thain won't mind.”

May passed a couple of apples up to Bilbo and Tom and selected one for herself. “Oh, no. I love workin' there. I've made lots of new friends and they're gettin' to be like family. I don't see the Thain much but Master Paladin and Mistress Eglantine are nice and I'm learnin' so much.”

Bilbo smiled to hear May's country accent creeping back, the closer they got to Hobbiton.

“Ferumbras is not one for standing on ceremony and Eglantine and Paladin are good people. They treat everyone like family. Great Smials is at least a little less formal than Brandy Hall. Much as I love Rorimac, he can be a bit of a stickler for rules.”

“Hah!” A blackbird started out of the hawthorn, with a scolding chatter of alarm, at Bilbo's exclamation. “The Master of Buckland is a stickler at applying the rules to everyone else. Not so much to himself.”

Frodo joined the general laughter. “He says there has to be some advantage to being the Master.”

By now they had reached Bywater and there was some discussion about whether to stop at the Green Dragon for some food, but home was beckoning to May and the Baggins. Tom would be happy enough lunching at the Ivy Bush in Hobbiton for he had no post to deliver in Bywater that day and several pieces for Hobbiton.

Tom had to navigate his pony and cart carefully through the market and, with a chorus of thanks to their driver, May, Frodo and Bilbo set cheerful feet onto the lane, over the bridge and up the hill toward home.


	23. Timing Is All

The sound of giggling, interspersed with a rythmic thud, thud, could have been cause for concern at any other time but Bell knew it was only two of her youngest, beating rugs in the back garden. It was spring and spring was the time for cleaning. 

“Everythin' in its time and a time for everythin',” as Da Hobson would say. Bell had set Sam and Marigold to cleaning the rugs. She and Hamfast had draped them over the empty washing line and then handed out the paddles. It seemed that Sam and Marigold were making a game of it.

Bell dumped some candle holders in the sink to wash and looked up to see how they were getting on. She smiled to see her two bairns dashing round and around the kitchen hearth rug and Bell's bedroom rug, beating as they went. It was fortunate that they had chosen one rug each or Bell could have been dealing with bruises and cracked heads, but all her children were sensible about such things . . . even Daisy most of the time.

Daisy would be washing the kitchen window later for it, like the tater patch, was now covered in a film of grey dust. No doubt Ham would have something to say about his taters when he came home. Still, the widow Rumble was forecasting rain overnight, which should wash the leaves clean. That reminded Bell that she must take some willow bark ointment down the hill later. If Buttercup Rumble was forecasting rain her arthritis must be acting up.

Daisy entered the big kitchen that served as the family room, a shallow basket filled with more candle holders. “Thank ye, lass. Set that down over here then I need ye to go out to the wash house, fill the copper and set a fire 'neath it. When yer brother and sister have finished out there they'll need a bath and we'll need to wash their clothes too.”

Daisy leaned over her mother's shoulder to look out of the window. In typical tween manner, she rolled her eyes at the sight of two little dusty grey figures rolling in a giggling heap on the grass. “Why does one cleanin' job always lead to another?” she asked with a grimace.

Bell chuckled. “'Tis the way of it. And when ye get to the end of all the jobs ye just start again at the beginnin'.”

Daisy sighed but collected some kindling in her apron, from the basket on the hearth, and headed for the garden door.

“And ye'd best make sure there's enough hot water for ye to have a bath too. Ye'll need to beat the top of the rugs where yer brother can't reach.” Bell grinned as Daisy stomped out, knowing that her daughter was of an age to be “proper mortified” if a lad saw her head to toe in muck. Bell was a firm believer that tweens needed taking down a peg every now and then and today was as good a day as any.

She took up an old knife and began to scrape wax off a candle holder and was just setting the last one in the sink, about to pour a kettle of water over them, when there was a knock at the front door. Wiping her hands on her apron she went to open it, breaking into a surprised smile when she found Bilbo and Frodo Baggins on her doorstep.

“Bless me, sirs. I thought ye weren't due home 'til the morrow. I would have gone up with some shoppin' if I'd known. But come away in. I'm sure I can spare some milk and bread or send Sam down to market for ye.”

“Thank you, Bell. I'd appreciate a drop of milk but Frodo can go down to the market later for the rest. That's not the only reason we called, however.” He and Frodo stepped aside to reveal a slight figure that had been standing unseen behind them.

“Hello Ma.”

“May, lass!” Bell opened her arms and May ran into her mother's astonished but welcoming embrace. “Ye never wrote to tell me ye was comin'.”

Frodo giggled, his bright blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “Eglantine suggested that May travel home with us to visit her family for a few days. There was plenty of room in the cart so here she is.”

Bell let her daughter go for long enough to wave everyone into the kitchen. “Come in, sirs. I clean forgot my manners. Sit yerselves down and I'll make tea. Ye must be parched after bein' on the road so long.”

Bilbo unfastened his jacket. “We stopped off at the Frog and Bucket halfway but I certainly would not refuse a cup of tea.”

Frodo joined his uncle at the scrubbed kitchen table while May hung her cloak on the pegs by the door. Bell was already pouring water into the large brown teapot when she glanced up, her eyes widening as she saw her daughter fully for the first time. “Well, would you look at my lass! She's all grown up. A proper little gentlehobbit. Just look at that frock.”

May beamed and Frodo had to agree that May looked much more mature than her eighteen years. When May had gone to work at Great Smials in Tuckborough she was a little wisp of a girl in her sister's cut down dress, with wide eyes, freckles, and a riot of misbehaved sandy curls. The May that stood before them now had grown a good six inches. The curls were tamed into glossy ringlets and she wore the pretty summer print dress of Great Smial's maids, protected by a fine, lawn pinafore.

“All the maids wear this,” May assured her mother, but she smiled proudly as she held out her full skirts and performed a pirouette that set her curls dancing.

Bell put the lid on the teapot. “Well, ye'd best put it away so it don't get spoiled while yer home. I won't have ye goin' back with a ruined frock.” All the same, she reached out admiringly to touch the fine weave of the pretty dress. “Do they really dress all the maids in this? It seems too fine.”

May giggled. “Yes Ma. They really do. And in winter we have nice warm wool ones with red flannel petticoats.” She blushed as she remembered that they had male gentlehobbits to tea. “Beggin' your pardon, sirs.”

Bilbo waved her apologies aside. “Don't worry, May. It will take more than the mention of a flannel petticoat to embarrass this old hobbit.”

Frodo ducked his head, however, and Bell noticed a becoming blush touch his cheeks. She ignored it as she set out her best cups and saucers and May fetched the milk jug from the cool slab in the pantry.

“T’was good of ye to bring May, all the same. Did ye come with Tom Carter?” Bell asked as she poured thick dark tea into everyone's cups.

Bilbo added liberal helpings of milk and honey to his. “We did. He's taken the cart down to the stables and will stay at the Ivy Bush overnight. Tomorrow he collects the post and will be off to Frogmorton and Buckland. Eglantine has made arrangements for May to ride back with him to Tuckborough next Mersday.”

May slipped into place at her ma's side. “I've got a whole five days to visit,” she announced brightly.

“That's very kind of the lady I must say. I hope as how ye've earned it,” Bell added. “It was good of ye to ask if my May could be put into service at Great Smials, Mr Bilbo. It looks to have suited her at the least.”

Bilbo fished about in his jacket pocket, finally producing a small drawstring bag and placing it on the table with a soft, “chink”. “Mistress Eglantine is more than pleased with May and she asked me to give you this. It's May's first year's wages.”

“Wages? I weren't expectin' no wages. Me and Ham was just pleased that May would have food and clothin' and a roof over her head.” Both Bell and May leaned forward as Bell reverently released the drawstring and tipped the contents onto the table. “Oh my!” Twelve shiny silver pennies glinted up at them. Neither made to touch them, as though unable to believe that such bounty was real. 

Finally, May whispered, “What are you goin' to do with all that, Ma?”

Bell blinked, sweeping the coins back into the bag and tying it off tightly before dropping it in her apron pocket. “That's for yer da to decide.”

Frodo hoped that at least some of it would find its way into May’s pocket. It was she who had earned it after all.

Bilbo hid a grimace as he took a last swallow of Bell's thick tea. “Well. It's time Frodo and I were off, if Frodo is to get down to the market before everyone packs up for the day.” 

Bell selected a smaller jug and decanted a little milk into it. “Here's yer milk. There should be enough for a few cups of tea until ye can get more. If there's none to be had at market Arty Sedgeburry will be doin' the evenin' milkin' of Clara soon. I'm sure he'll have a drop to spare ye. Clara's milkin' well now the grass is greenin' up.”

“Thank you, Bell. I shall return the favour once Frodo returns from market.” Both gentlehobbits were beaten to the door by May, who dropped a very proper curtsy as she opened it.

Bilbo grinned and was about to exit when the kitchen door banged open at the other end of the room and a strange grey apparition stepped into the smial.

It seemed Daisy had done as her mother requested and finished the job of beating the rugs, for she carried both of them in her arms. The rugs were beauties, painstakingly knotted from rags Bell had collected for many years. They were vibrantly colourful. The same could not be said of Daisy Gamgee. Beating carpets was sweaty work, which meant that the clouds of dust clung to all exposed skin and coated hair and clothes.

When she saw Bilbo and Frodo, Daisy's mouth fell open. With a squeak of alarm, she dropped the rugs, turned and fled.

Frodo slapped his free hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh and concentrated upon not spilling the milk. Bilbo didn’t bother with such niceties and chuckled. “I take it you're spring cleaning, Bell.”

Bell grinned. “Aye. Daisy was just finishin' the carpets.”

Bilbo gave the still shaking Frodo a gentle shove out of the front door. “It looks rather more as though the carpets finished Daisy.”

Bell's smile widened. There was a time to bring tweens down a notch or two, and Daisy could not have timed it better had she tried.


	24. Gathering

“May!” May turned to see Frodo Baggins slamming the gate to Bag End in his haste. She stepped back from the cart, where Tom waited patiently.

Bell Gamgee, who was waiting to wave off her daughter, watched with some curiosity as her young neighbour sprinted down the lane, brown paper parcel in hand. Her lips thinned as she noted her daughter's cheeks pink and her eyes begin to sparkle. In Bell's eyes her lass was doomed to disappointment if she was setting her cap at Master Frodo. The Baggins family were way beyond the reach of folks like the Gamgee's. Bell was a firm believer in maintaining the status quo . . . as, indeed, were most hobbits. It was always good to know where you stood in life and in Bell's eyes the Gamgees stood several steps below the Baggins.

Frodo arrived, only a little out of breath, and held out his parcel to May. “I know you have been learning to write and thought you would like this.”

May accepted the package with some surprise, pushing aside the paper to reveal a small book, a pen and a little bottle of ink. Frodo's face was almost as pink as May's as he shuffled his feet a little and murmured, “I thought you would like to write a journal, so that you don't forget things and can tell your parents what you've been doing the next time you visit.”

“A journal? Goodness, Master Frodo. I don't think any of my friends will have a journal. Thank you.” May re-wrapped the package with due reverence and handed it up to Tom Carter, who sat, reins in hand. Like Bell, he was watching with some interest.

Now both youngsters stood silent for some moments, clearly at a loss as to what to say. Bell decided to help things along in the proper direction. “Go along, May, lass. Tom can't wait all day. He's got packages to deliver in Bywater and the day's gettin' on.”

May blinked and turned to put her foot on the wheel hub, then thought better of things and turned back, intending to give Frodo a peck on the cheek. Frodo chose that particular moment to turn to Bell, however, and the light kiss landed fair and square on his surprised lips. Both youngsters jumped apart as though stung, their blushes deepening, then May clambered up onto the seat beside Tom with a muttered, “Bye, Ma.”

Bell watched with a sinking feeling as a slow smile crept across Frodo's face. “Can I write to you?” he called as Tom flicked the reins and the cart pulled away down the lane.  
May turned to call back, “Yes, please. I'll write back.” She smiled broadly as she returned his wave and Bell shook her head slowly as she watched her daughter disappear down the lane. Mayhap distance would cool things down, the mother hoped.

-0-

“Ma, you've got a letter,” Sam called as he entered the kitchen of Number Three. “I met the post master comin' up the hill and said as how I'd save him the walk. I've already taken the one addressed to Master Frodo up to Bag End. It's in our May's writin'.”

Bell set down the cup she had been washing and wiped her hands on her apron. “Now, why would yer sister be writin' to me so soon? Ye'd best read it to me, lad.”

Sam sat down at the table, wiping his hands on his weskit before opening the carefully folded and sealed missive. He regularly received notes from his sister but he loved being asked to do the important task of reading out a letter addressed to his Ma. His face beamed as he read aloud.

“Dear Ma,  
I hope you are well. I am very well. Mistress Eglantine says I can come home for the Thrimidge feast. It only feels like yesterday that I was home and now I can visit again. She says I can stay for a week. So I will come with Tom Carter on the eight and will be leefing on the fifteen.  
Yours sincerily  
May”

Bell grinned. “It will be good to have her back. I'd best tell Daisy to clear a space in the cupboard for her clothes. Did ye say there was a letter for Master Frodo too?”

Sam refolded the note and handed it over to his Ma, who tucked it carefully into her apron pocket. “Yes, Ma. Him and May have been writin' regular. Mister Chubb often gives the letters to me to carry up the hill.”

Bell sniffed. “It don't feel right getting' Bert to come all this way to Bag End just to deliver a letter from my May. And Bert is too old to be climbin' the hill.”

Sam looked confused. “It's not that far, Ma. And when I'm in the garden I can see Mister Chubb as he crosses the bridge. I can run down and fetch the letters if you like.”  
Bell only turned back to her washing of the pots. “Daisy! Daisy. Have ye changed the sheets on yer bed today?”

-0-

“She's here, Ma!” Sam burst through the door, with little Marigold giggling at his side. Behind them, Bell could see May and Daisy, arm in arm, coming down the garden path. Bell slid the kettle onto the hob and wiped her hands as the girls tripped, laughing, into the kitchen. As soon as she saw her mother, May ran into her arms. “Hello Ma.”

Bell enveloped her then leaned back to examine her more critically. “Have ye grown?”

May laughed, “No, Ma. It's only been a few weeks since I was here last.”

Bell pursed her lips. “Ye look taller. Still, makes no difference. Yer still my little lass.” And she enfolded her daughter in another hug.

Daisy hoisted a huge carpet bag onto the table with a loud thud and Bell frowned. “Not on my clean kitchen table if you please. Take yer sister's bag into yer room.”

When Daisy rolled her eyes and would have complied May rushed to stop her. “No. Wait a minute. Mistress Eglantine sent some presents.”

Bell frowned. “Presents from the mistress of Great Smials? Whatever did she do that for? I hope she don't think we're paupers.”

May laughed as she opened the bag. “No, Ma. She just said as how she wanted to give somethin' to the festival day. If I stayed there for Thrimidge Day she'd be feedin' me so she said she didn't see why I should miss out. I see the Prancin' Pole's already up in the Party Field.” As she spoke she began to unwrap several packages that she laid out upon the table. When she had finished May pointed to each in turn.

“There's some powdered sugar, butter, a Thrimidge cake, cheese, tea … the best tea, Ma ... chocolate and some pipe weed for Da.”

The Gamgee family only stood and stared for a moment. The Thrimidge cake was encased in thick hard white icing and Bell's practiced nose could detect a liberal waft of brandy from within. The chocolate was grated for cooking or making drinks and the pipeweed was none other than Longbottom Leaf. Bell finally found her voice and her common sense as she smiled at her daughter. Pride was all well and good but sometimes gifts were just that, gifts. “Well now, that's very nice of Mistress Eglantine and please tell her, thank ye. Mayhap, when ye go back, I'll send ye with a cake as our Thrimidge present to her.”

The youngsters about the table let out a sigh of relief, imagining toast dripping in butter, posh Thrimidge cake with sweet tea, cups of hot chocolate or, even better, Ma's finest chocolate cake. Daisy was calculating how many cakes could be made with the butter and sugar even as she ferried them to the pantry.

Marigold reached out a grubby finger to touch the icing and Bell tapped it away. “Oh, no ye don't, lass. That's for Thrimidge and that's three days away. Daisy, come and put this in the pantry afore it gets mucky finger marks all over it.”

May giggled. “Now, Mari, that reminds me. I've got something for you.” She rummaged in her bag, finally producing two pretty green satin ribbons. “I expect they'll drop in the mud within five minutes of putting them in your hair but I thought you'd like them.”

Marigold's eyes widened and she wiped her hands on her already grubby pinafore before accepting them and holding them out to her Ma for approval. Bell smiled fondly. “That's sweet of ye lass. We'll keep 'em for best and she can wear them on Thrimidge.”

As Daisy returned she, like Sam, hovered a little expectantly and May did not disappoint. Two more little gifts were produced . . . a bright blue satin sash for Daisy and two pencils for Sam.

Bell tutted. “Yer a bonnie lass, May Gamgee, but ye shouldn't be spendin' yer hard earned money on us. When yer Da gave ye back half yer pay, him and me hoped ye'd spend it on somethin' nice fer yerself. We've got all we need.”

May only laughed. “Ma, I get food and board for free, and my uniform. I don't need to spend a lot on myself. I got some cloth for a couple of dresses and bits, and that's all I needed. I got these in Michel Delving when the Mistress took all us lasses in for the day last month.”

Sam's mouth dropped open in awe. Michel Delving was the nearest thing the Shire had to a town, boasting a whole street of shops. “You've been to Michel Delving? Is it big? Did you see the Mayor?”

May laughed again. “I don't know what the Mayor looks like so I don't know whether I saw him or not. It's not that big, either, but there was a big drapers shop. You would love it, Ma. Lots of beautiful cloth. Very posh. I think it was called Berttisl's or some such.” She winked at her younger brother. “It was a long name, anyway, and written in posh letters so I couldn't quite read it. I didn't like to ask for fear of lookin' stupid in front of the Mistress.”

At that moment the kettle lid began to rattle and Bell turned to lift it from the heat. “Ye'd best get yer things put away, May. Tea will be ready in a minute. Ye've just time to wash yer hands and face.”

The next morning dawned bright and clear and was everything a late spring morning should be. When Bilbo and Frodo arrived at Number Three the kitchen was a hive of activity. It was Hamfast Gamgee who opened the door and waved them in to the chaos. “Come in, sirs. I think the missus is almost ready. They're just packing the last of the baskets. I see you've brought your own.”

Bilbo nodded to the hamper held between himself and Frodo. “We have, indeed. We thought you wouldn't object to a little extra.”

Frodo's eyes went straight to where May was folding a linen cloth and placing it in one of several wicker baskets on the table and, following the direction of his gaze, Bilbo noted a flush of pink touch May's cheeks. Frodo at least had the presence of mind to contribute to the conversation. “It was very good of you and Mistress Gamgee to invite us to join you for the Gathering.” 

“A picnic is no fun with only two and you've always been good to me and mine,” Ham answered, readily before adding, “In any case, I can use an extra set of hands cuttin' the Yule log.”

“And food always seems to go further when there's plenty to share it,” Bell contributed as she wrapped a shawl about her shoulders. High summer was still a way off and everyone had brought an extra layer against the cooler late spring breezes.

Only five minutes later everyone was trooping down the lane. They would be collecting the Hawthorn blossom from Farmer Brownlock's hedgerows so at the end of the lane they turned right and away from Hobbiton. May contrived to walk alongside Bilbo and Frodo. “Do you usually gather the Hawthorn on your own then, sirs?”

Bilbo jumped in before Frodo had time to reply. “Oh, no. I don't usually bother, if I'm honest.”

Frodo chuckled. “You mean, you usually forget. I've no doubt you've always had your head in a book.”

His uncle grinned. “You may be right. But I've always thought that Thrimidge is a celebration for the young. All that dancing and such . . .”

May laughed prettily. “Oh, I've seen you dance at the Yule Fire, Mister Baggins. I reckon you could show some of the tweens a lesson or two.”

Frodo hid a grin, slipping May a sly wink as Bilbo preened a little. “Well, one tries to stay fit,” his uncle replied as he tweaked his cravat.

For some minutes they walked on in silence, content to listen to the light banter going on around them. It seemed that although the choice for Thrimidge Queen had been narrowed there was still some debate upon the King. Frodo had been alarmed last week when he heard that he was being considered for the role, mainly because he knew Daisy Gamgee was the front runner for Queen. Indeed, Daisy had taken great delight in advising him of that fact. The final vote would take place tomorrow, with Thrimidge Day only one day after that. Frodo tried to turn his mind to something else.

“Have you heard from Hal and Ham recently?” he asked May.

“I haven't had any letters but Ma says she had a note from Hal sayin' they're both well. I think Hal had it from Ham by way of the landlord in the Pig and Whistle in Oakbottom and then by Tom Carter.”

Bilbo shook his head at the convoluted process that would have been so much simpler if folk would only bother to learn to read and write. “Are you still enjoying working in Tookborough?” he asked.

“Oh yes, sir. Mistress Eglantine took a few of us girls into Michel Delving last month, by way of a treat. They have proper shops there and everything.”

Bilbo held open the five bar gate for her. “We do have a couple of shops in Hobbiton, if you remember,” he pointed out with a wry grin.

May sniffed with all the disdain of a young person who has just tasted the heady sweetness of city living. “Only a baker and a butcher. Michel Delving has a drapers, a candlemakers and even a tailor and a dressmaker.” May looked down at her pretty spring dress. “Can you imagine having someone make your clothes for you?”

Her comment was met with a chuckle by the older hobbit, who was in the process of arranging a visit to his tailor. Frodo jumped to May's defence however. “I don't think you need the services of a dressmaker. You're obviously very skilled with a needle and thread. Your dress is beautiful.” He blushed and May ducked her head, but Bilbo noticed a smile touch the lass' lips. The older hobbit decided that the next few days could prove to be interesting. He rather enjoyed watching each new generation perform the courtship dance from the safety of his long bachelorhood.

In true hobbit fashion the picnic was set out before cutting of the hawthorn or the Yule commenced and, of course, some of the sandwiches had to be sampled. So it was mid morning before the party divided into smaller groups, armed with pruning knives and empty baskets. It was a good year for hawthorn blossom and many folk suggested that this was a good sign for a plentiful harvest to come. Of course, there were those who considered that more blossom would result in more berries and more berries signalled a harsh winter to come. Such was the nature of country sayings.

Frodo and May moved a little farther up the field and, when Frodo spotted a gap in the hawthorn, he suggested they cut blossom from the other side of the hedge, as that had not been picked over yet. May selected the branches and Frodo cut, handing them over to May, who stacked them neatly in their basket.

“I enjoyed reading your letters. Your writing improves with each one,” Frodo offered.

“It's getting easier to write but I still have trouble reading stuff when folk use fancy writing,” May replied ruefully. “Why can't everyone write the same? I can read yours and Sam's but some folks write so flowery . . .”

Frodo chuckled as he cut the next white, blossom-laden branch. May had dropped to her knees to adjust the basket's load and a little flurry of flowers landed in her hair, making her giggle. Frodo dropped to one knee before May to help pick the tiny blossom out of her ringlets. 

Leaning forward Frodo was aware of the light chamomile-apple fragrance of her, mingled with the heady sweetness of the hawthorn blossom, and the silky softness of her curls between his fingers. Two sets of hands slowed as their fingers touched in May's ringlets and she lifted liquid brown eyes to meet the shining blue of his. For a long moment Frodo was held captive then his gaze dropped lower, to her pale pink lips, and curiosity took him. He wondered if they would feel as plump and soft as they looked. Gently, he used a hand upon her cheek to tilt her head, just a little, and leaned in. Her lips were soft and moist, tasting of honey and mint and he closed his eyes to better savour the experience.

“Master Frodo, Master Frodo .. . Ma says if you don't come quick there'll be no food left and Da's askin' for your help in felling the tree for the Yule logs!”

Frodo and May started apart to find young Sam standing a few yards away. Frodo held out a hand to help May to her feet and lifted the basket in his other. Sam carried on a stream of chatter as he led the way back to the picnic cloths and the rest of the party. “Ma couldn't find you and she sent me to look for you, but it's taken me ages, because I didn't think to look behind the hedge until I heard May laughing, and then I couldn't find a gap . . .”

-0-

Frodo climbed down the ladder, nodding thanks to Bartimus Brockbank, who was holding it steady for him. Both stood back to admire their handiwork.

A ring of poles had been set in place in the centre of the Party Field and Frodo had been one of those tasked with threading the swags of hawthorn blossom between them. The ladies of Hobbiton had been working hard all morning, twining blossom with ivy to make the heavy swags and the younger lads had been given the task of setting them in place.

“Have you heard about the King and Queen?” asked Bartimus. His sister was one of those short listed for the role of Queen. Ruby had been doing some pretty intense campaigning for the title and, bearing in mind that the King and Queen were supposed to represent the land's fertility, Frodo secretly held the view that she would be well suited to the role. He had certainly cast his vote for her. In truth, he would have voted for anyone but Daisy Gamgee.

“Have the votes been counted, then?” he asked as his stomach turned queezy somersaults.

“Aye. Our Ruby's at home, primping even now. I expect Ma will bring her down a peg in a few days but last I saw she was tryin' to talk Ma into cuttin' three inches off the bottom of her skirt.” Ruby was not what anyone would call a great beauty but she was very popular with the lads, for reasons that brought a winsome smile to Frodo's lips.

“So, who's the King, then?” Frodo asked, trying to decide whether he was upset or relieved that it was obviously not him.

Bartimus snorted. “Orton Sandiman, would you believe?”

Related to Ted Sandiman, Hobbiton's miller, Orton had inherited the family's sour temperament. Sadly, as the the only miller for miles around, when Ted put his weight behind the voting it was almost a foregone conclusion that Orton would be crowned. “I'm sorry,” Frodo offered in heartfelt condolence.

“Aye. Daisy Gamgee is fair spittin' that she didn't get the crown but I don't think there's a lass for miles about who has a fancy for Orton. Even our Ruby.” Bartimus grinned. “It'll make my job easier at least.”  
Bartimus was big, in all directions, and made an excellent bodyguard for his wayward sister. He had once nearly caught Frodo in the bushes with Ruby at a Harvest Reel and, although they had not come face to face upon that occasion, Bartimus had later made it very clear that he knew exactly what could have happened. He also made it very clear what would have happened to Frodo if what could have happened, had. Since then he and Frodo had become friends. So it was without fear that Frodo replied, “I'd still keep an eye on her if I were you.”

Bartimus gave a rumbling chuckle. “Oh, I will.”

Just then a shout went up and a crowd of tweens and youngsters ran into the field. At their centre ran Delbin Chubb, holding aloft a wreath of hawthorn blossom and ivy. When he reached the beribboned Prancing Pole he dropped the wreath about his neck and began to shin upward to the chant of, “Climb, climb, climb, climb ...”

As Delbin clambered upward Frodo was reminded of a dwarven-made toy Bilbo had given him when a faunt. The stick had a strange little hairy creature that Bilbo told him was called a monkey, and when you pulled a string it ascended the stick. Not that Delbin could have been compared to the monkey in anything but climbing skill . . . well . . . not much. 

Delbin's arrival at the apex was greeted with a loud cheer and much clapping and, now playing to the crowd, Delbin waved the wreath enthusiastically before dropping it neatly over the top of the pole and tying it in place. Frodo wondered if it were a reflection of his impending maturity that he was concerned Delbin would fall, and was relieved when his young neighbour was safely back on the ground. Frodo and Bartimus fell in with the other youngsters, however, as they left the field, joining in the general back slapping being awarded to Delbin.

Half an hour later Frodo and Bartimus sat on a bench outside the Ivy Bush, nursing two halves of cider. 

“Daisy tells me May is home for a few days,” Bartimus observed with a twinkle.

“Yes,” Frodo replied non-committally.

Bartimus grinned as he took a good swallow of his drink. “They say she's growin' into a bonnie lass. I expect there'll be lots of lads hopin' she asks them for a dance tomorrow. Maybe I'll join 'em.”

“Better not,” Frodo mumbled into his mug.

Bartimus chuckled. “Don't fret. As usual, I'll be too busy keepin' an eye on our Ruby. I don't expect she'll get up to much mischief with Orton but I know she's got an eye on a few other lads. Your May is safe from me. Anyway, I'm hopin' for a prance about the pole with Daisy.”

After his initial shock that anyone would actually volunteer to dance with Daisy Gamgee Frodo tried on his most innocent expression. “She's not my May. She can dance with whoever she wants to.”

Bartimus' guffaw let Frodo know that he was not fooled in the slightest. “You surely don't think nobody knows you're sweet on each other? Little Sam Gamgee's been tellin' anyone who'll listen, how you two have been writin' to each other. He's right proud of the fact that his big sister can write and I don't have to read to be able to add two and two.”

“Does all Hobbiton know, then?”

Bartimus made a point of considering for several moments before replying with a grin, “Pretty much. And as Tom Carter gets to carry the letters I expect the rest of the Shire does too.”

Frodo groaned, dropping his head into his hands.


	25. The Prancing Pole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamfast Gamgee bares all and his daughters have a spat.

Thrimidge was another clear, bright, late spring day that perched hopefully upon the cusp of summer. As was the custom, anyone not involved in last minute preparations, went down to the local farms to watch all the cattle being driven between two large bonfires. Frodo had not encountered this tradition in Buckland and Bilbo had to explain that the custom was supposed to impart protection on the herds. Watching some of the cows roll their eyes Frodo was not so sure that anyone had stopped to explain this to the poor beasts, but the event seemed to go off well enough.

Unlike other feast days, Thrimidge did not have a market fair. Everyone was expected to join in the festivities and nobody worked, so by lunch time the Party Field was packed with picnic cloths and when Bilbo and Frodo arrived they at first thought they would have difficulty finding a space. 

“Over here, Mister Bilbo, sir!” Little Sam Gamgee ran up to them, waving toward a small group off to one side. When they followed they discovered all the occupants of the hill seated together. Even the usually introvert Arty Sedgeburry had put in an appearance.

“Greetings of the day to you all,” Bilbo offered with a wide smile. “I'm afraid we may not be able to join you. I don't think I have ever seen the field so full. Perhaps Frodo and I can find somewhere farther away from the Pole.”

“Oh, that's alright, sir. Me and the lasses have saved you a place,” Sam announced proudly as his sisters stood and whisked away the cloth they had been sitting upon.

Bilbo's smile was in danger of splitting his face in two. “How clever of you. Thank you. Come along, Frodo. Let us join our neighbours and set out our luncheon.”

It took only minutes for Bilbo and Frodo to arrange their spread and if Sam and Marigold looked on enviously at the finger sandwiches, pies, buns, flans, cakes, scones, cold meats and salads Bilbo only winked and said nothing. And if May Gamgee switched places with her younger sister so that she was seated closer to Frodo, Bell also said nothing.

“Ham, love. Stand still. I can't tie these on when yer jiggin' about. Ye've been practicin' yer steps for weeks. In fact I watched ye so often I reckon I could do 'em myself,” Bell pronounced with a chuckle as she tried to tie the shield of bells about her husband's muscular calves. Ham Gamgee was one of Hobbiton's team of Thrimidge Prancers and was dressed today in white shirt and breeches, trimmed with brightly coloured ribbons. When Bell had finished Ham whisked up his hawthorn blossom trimmed hat and held out his arms. “Well, lass. Will I do?”  
Bell snorted. “If ye don't bend down to much, aye. I think I need to let out those breeches a bit afore next year.”

Ham looked down at his belly, which was taxing the quality of Bell's button sewing abilities a little alarmingly. “You let 'em out last year and the year afore. I don't think there's any more left to let.”

Bell sighed. “Then I'd best get some cloth to make ye another pair for next year. For today ye'll just have to suck it in and ye can trot home to change when ye've finished yer prancin'.” At the jingle of several sets of bells she thrust a ribbon trimmed stick at him. “Here. Ye'd best get off and join the others. They're linin' up over yonder.”

Before he turned to join the line Ham pointed to Frodo with a grin. “Ye'd best pay attention Master Frodo. I think Cob Chubb is thinkin' of asking you to join before next year's Prance. Don't think your dancin' skills at the Harvest Reel haven't gone unnoticed.” With those words he trotted off toward the other assembled dancers.

Frodo's eyes widened and May Gamgee giggled to see it. “Don't worry, Frodo. The steps aren't hard and they only dance once a year.” Bell noted the dropping of Master Frodo's honorific with pursed lips. She and May needed to have a serious talk, and soon. In her eyes May was setting her cap at someone way above her station in life and was heading for heartache. First love was always the hardest, she observed.

Someone struck up a drum and the two lines of Prancers were off. Frodo did pay attention, watching several of Hobbiton's finest form their figures, tap sticks or wave kerchiefs, jump and prance, all the while the bells on their calves tinging in perfect synchrony with the drum. All around them folk cheered when they formed a particularly intricate figure or leapt especially high, and the applause was ecstatic by the time they bowed to each other at the end.

When a rather sweaty Ham returned Bell offered him a cup of lemonade that he downed in one go. “Phew! I'm gettin' too old for this, Bell, lass.”

Bell refilled his cup. “I've been tellin' ye that for the past three years. Yer goin' to have to give it up or stop eatin'. Go home and change. And ye'd best have a wash while yer at it. I don't fancy sittin' next to yer sweaty body all afternoon.” All about them, heads dipped down to hide grins for Bell Gamgee did not mince her words.

Ham took it all in good part, however, throwing back his head to laugh before bending down to give her a loud, smack of a kiss full on her lips. Unfortunately, the sound of the kiss was accompanied by the sound of Ham's breeches finally giving up the battle, and that was too much for the assembled company, who began to laugh uproariously as the gaping hole in the back seem revealed to all the world, Hamfast Gamgee's under garments.  
The sound of a fiddle tuning up signalled dancing of another type and Daisy Gamgee suddenly leapt to her feet and reached out a hand to Frodo. It was the custom at Thrimidge for the lasses to invite the lads to dance. “Come prance with me, Master Frodo.”

Too polite to refuse Frodo only had time to cast a rueful smile to the astonished May before he was being tugged away to the Prancing Pole. There the lads and lasses formed two concentric circles, each grabbing a ribbon. As the music struck up each circle began to move in opposite directions, weaving in and out as the figures were called. With each step the ribbons shortened, and they drew closer and closer to the pole until bodies began to brush against each other. A final twist was called and each lad found himself bound close to a lass.

There was much blushing and giggling as the crowd shouted, good naturedly, “Kiss the lasses! Kiss the lads!”

The calling had been done to perfection so that each person was now with their original partner and Daisy Gamgee arched a knowing brow at Frodo, who would have squirmed had his body not been plastered so close against hers. Daisy had no such compunction, however, noting that to her side the hawthorn crowned Ruby Brockbank was trying to avoid Ortis' slobbery kiss. Daisy took a deep breath, which had the effect of mashing her soft breasts into Frodo's suddenly cringing chest.

The crowd were still calling, and out of the corner of his eyes he could see several couples already obliging. Frodo realised that to not comply was to draw unwanted attention, not to mention possibly humiliating Daisy, who was already smarting from having been pipped to the post for Thrimidge Queen. As part of the Shire gentry, Frodo was wise enough to know that he would be in demand for the dancing and by asking him for the first prance Daisy had scored a coup. He leaned in to place a soft kiss upon her pursed lips, surprised when he drew back, to see a shimmer of tears in her eyes. Just before the music started, to guide them all apart again, she leaned in to whisper, “Thank you, Master Frodo.”

As he followed the figures to unwind the ribbons Frodo considered that moment and filed it away for later examination. He knew that many of the local lads were as wary as he of Daisy Gamgee's sharp tongue and flirtatious ways, but perhaps she was not as harsh as she outwardly appeared. When the music stopped he offered his arm to escort her back to their party, bowing low and giving his hand to lower her courteously to the ground. 

He could feel the icy chill emanating from May as he retook his place at Bilbo's side. As, it seemed, could everyone else for conversation was suddenly muted. From her place across from May, Daisy gave a haughty toss of her head and pointedly stared down her younger sister. Frodo pondered on how May could give off such a chill and yet have such fire blazing in her eyes, and he drew in a sharp breath as she reached across to fill her sister's cup, instead pouring lemonade all over Daisy's skirt.  
May put a hand to her mouth in mock horror as Daisy shrieked and leapt to her feet to try and brush off the sticky liquid. Bell Gamgee looked from one daughter to the other, her lips thinning. Grabbing May's arm and hoisting her to her feet she led both girls from the field. The last thing Frodo heard was Bell's firm, “Right, my lasses, tis long past time ye and me had a talk.”

Bilbo patted Frodo on the back, offering a rueful smile and a pork pie. “I've never understood why they're considered to be the gentler sex. I suspect the Dark Lord would have been defeated much sooner had he been set against an army of ladies.”

Frodo accepted the pie. Thrimidge was not exactly going to the plan he had formulated so carefully in his head when he lying, staring at his bedroom ceiling last night.

-0-

Hamfast was coming out of Number Three as Bell and the girls arrived. Blinking in surprise he held the door open for them. “Hello Daisy. Did you spill yer lemonade?”

Daisy stomped past him, sparing only a moment to shoot an evil look at her sister over her shoulder as she replied, tersely, “No.”

Ham would have upbraided his daughter for such insolence to her father, but Bell only shook her head. “Ye'd best go see to the youngsters. I'll sort out this one.” She leaned in to place a peck on his cheek. “I'll explain later.”

Giving her a quick squeeze her husband left, closing the door behind him. This was obviously women's business and he'd long since learned to stay out of it. 

Daisy and May were standing in the kitchen, staring daggers at each other across the width of the kitchen table. Bell sighed. “Daisy, go change yer dress then bring it out here and put it in a bucket of cold water to soak.” When Daisy looked as though she would argue Bell only narrowed her eyes. “Now, Daisy. I'll speak to ye after I've had words with yer sister.” 

Daisy flounced off and Bell gave her attention to May, who was looking unrepentant. Her mother decided it was time to change that. “Well? What was that about? As if I didn't know.”

May was not about to let go of her anger. “Daisy knew I was goin' to ask Frodo for the first prance. She'd no right to go and do that.”  
Bell folded arms across her matronly bosom. “For goodness sake, lass. It were a dance. Nothin' more. Ye've got the whole day to dance with Master Frodo and any other lad that takes yer fancy.”

“Frodo is mine!” May blinked in alarm as though surprised that the words had slipped out.

Bell nodded. “Aye. This is part my fault. I knew the way the wind was blowin' but I hoped it would blow out with time. May, lass, Master Frodo is a sweet lad but he's not for the likes of us.” When May only looked mutinous Bell continued. “He's polite and he treats every lass, high born or low, like a lady. Now that can turn a lass' head if she's not careful, thinkin' she means somethin' to him. But he's a gentlehobbit and when he weds it needs to be to a lass that can stand up in high company.”

May's shoulders dropped. “But I know how to set a table for posh folks and I'm learnin' to read and write,” she pointed out with a little less conviction.

Bell wanted to wrap her up in her arms, knowing how harsh this was going to be, and wishing she could spare her daughter the pain. “I know, lass. But it takes more than that. Master Frodo is very book learned and he needs a life mate who can match him. Couples don't spend all the rest of their days kissin' an' canoodlin'. They talk sometimes. What would ye talk about? I know ye like to write but are ye fond of history, dwarves, elves and the like?” 

From the size of their family, Bell secretly wondered if Dandy and Flora Bracegirdle did anything but canoodling but that was another pairing and another matter. Of course, Bell had seen many a good marriage between two opposing characters, grow and thrive. Whilst May could be relied upon to run a good home and raise children, Bell had other reasons for worrying whether any lass of the Shire would be able to keep Frodo Baggins happy over time. 

Often, through the years, Bell had seen a far-away look in Bilbo Baggin’s eyes when he looked to the east, and recently Bell had surprised the same expression in Frodo’s eyes once or twice. It was a gaze that said he was thinking of places far beyond the safe boundaries of the Shire. Who was to say that, one day, he too would not run off after dwarves or elves? Bell had no doubt that Frodo was enough of a gentlehobbit not to run off and leave his wife and bairns unsupported, but he may just grow to resent them, and Bell was determined that such would not happen to her daughter.

May settled onto one of the benches flanking the table. “I suppose your right. I hadn't thought about that.”

Bell came to sit at her side. “No lass. I didn't think ye had. Yer young yet and the right lad for ye will come along one day. Don't ye fret. Dance with Master Frodo if ye've a mind to, but dance with other lads too. There's lots of ‘em out there and yer a fine catch yerself.” She tucked a strand of her daughter’s hair behind her ear.

May leaned in and Bell wrapped an arm about her. May made one last complaint, however. “Daisy was still bad to do what she did.”

Her mother sighed. “Ye know as well as me that yer sister is all bluster on the outside and soft as butter on the inside. She had her heart set on bein' Thrimidge Queen this year. She may not show it, but she was proper hurt when Ruby got the crown. Did ye happen to notice who was standing next to yer sister round that pole?”

Light dawned in May's eyes. “Ruby and Ortis.”

Bell was pleased that her daughter was seeing sense at last. “Exactly. She knew that Ruby, along with half the lasses in Hobbiton, wanted Frodo Baggins to be King. I expect Ortis was low on Ruby's list of hoped for partners.” 

“Poor Ruby. And poor Daisy.” May raised watery eyes to her mother. “I was so wrapped up in my wants that I'd forgotten about Daisy.”

Bell gave her a quick squeeze. “Well don't be too sorry for yer sister. I've yet to talk to her. But I think she'd appreciate ye sayin' sorry about the dress. It was her best, after all.”

May gave a nod and fished in her pocket for a hanky to blow her nose. “I'll go speak to her now.”

She was stayed once more by her mother however. “Ye go back to the party, lass. Daisy needs to cool down a mite. Ye can say sorry later. I need a word with her first.” When May didn't move Bell stood. “Come on lass. Off ye go. Ye don't want to miss any more prances. I expect Master Frodo at least is wonderin' where ye are.”

May leaned in to kiss her mother's cheek before leaving and Bell let out an explosive sigh, before squaring her shoulders to go and beard the lioness in her den. As she expected, Daisy was sobbing into her pillow, her best dress in a screwed-up puddle on the floor. Bell collected the dress, pausing to assess the damage before sitting upon the edge of the bed. She knew that her eldest daughter’s tears were about much more than a spoiled skirt.

“Come on, lass. That's enough of that. Tis not the end of the world.” When Daisy sat up her mother held out a clean hanky. “Wipe yer eyes and blow yer nose. Snot and tears is not a good look on any lass.”

Daisy complied but she frowned at her mother. “I hope you gave May a good tellin' off. She's ruined my frock and made me look a proper fool in front of Mister Baggins.”

Bell's eyes widened. “Mister Baggins is it? Are ye sure it's not young Master Baggins yer meanin'?”

Daisy had the good grace not to deny that. “Well, she's still spoilt my frock.”

“And why do ye think she did that?” Bell asked.

Daisy studied the soggy hanky in her hands. “I'm sure I don't know.”

“Oh, I'm sure ye do. Didn't yer sister tell ye she was goin' to ask Master Frodo for the first prance?”

Daisy was not going to capitulate easily. “She may have mentioned it. I wasn't payin' attention. She's always talkin' about Master Frodo. It's all, 'Master Frodo says this' and 'Master Frodo says that'. I've given up listenin'.”

“And there's the rub. Ye weren't listenin' to her because ye were thinkin' about yer own wants and she weren't listenin' to ye because she was thinkin' about her wants.” When Daisy looked up in surprise Bell continued. “Ye wanted to be Queen and she wanted Master Frodo. I know yer disappointed and ye saw a way to get back at Ruby, but ye hurt yer sister in the doin' of it. I'm not sayin' what she did was right either, but are ye so surprised that she wanted to hurt ye back?”

Daisy met her mother's gaze at last. “No Ma. Is May awful hurt? Is she still in the kitchen? I'd best go say, 'sorry'.”

Bell nodded. “There's my good lass. No, she's gone to ask Master Frodo for the next prance, and if ye've a mind to prance with Bartimus Brockbank ye'd best wash yer face, change yer frock and follow her.”

A little of Daisy's old fire returned, to her mother's delight. “Why would I want to dance with that lass' big oaf of a brother?”

Bell chuckled as she bent to kiss her eldest on the brow. “Because ye've been makin' calf eyes at him fer the past three month. Don't ye deny it. I'm yer mother and tis my job to notice these things.”

Daisy grinned. “Mayhap I have. But I'll not let him know that.”

Bell swept from the room, Daisy's damp frock in hand. “Then how will ye ask him for a prance?” She left her daughter to consider that one.

They were calling for the next group of prancers when Frodo saw May returning. She had lost her pinched look and she smiled widely at him as she held out a hand. “Will you prance with me, Master Frodo?”

Frodo scrambled to his feet with a broad smile of his own. “I'd be honoured to, Miss May.”

When they kissed sweetly at the pole Frodo felt that something had changed, although he could not put his finger upon what it could be. 

He never got to steal another kiss and May’s letters grew less frequent. As time went on, the daily events of life crowded out his feelings for May Gamgee and, for her part, May found new friends in Tuckborough.

Bell’s relief was mixed with some sadness for, under other circumstances, she would have loved to see Bag End filled with the bairns of May and Frodo Baggins, but she wondered if Frodo would ever resolve the burgeoning wonder-lust in his heart. Would Hobbiton awake one day to find that he and Bilbo had disappeared over the river on some dangerous adventure? If he did follow his uncle would he return, and would he be the same when he did?


	26. Bilbo, Bell and the Bentwhistle Bargain

“Mr Bilbo! Mr Bilbo! There's dwarves, sir! Dwarves!”

Bilbo swore roundly as his quill splayed, spattering a great blue lake right in the middle of the piece of elvish translation that he had been copying so meticulously for the past hour. He took a second to throw a sheet of blotting paper onto it before looking up and trying to fix a pleasant smile on his face. It was a fine summer afternoon so the window to his study stood open to let in the lavender laden air. Frodo popped his head around the door, grinning as he saw young Sam Gamgee hopping from foot to foot in the garden beyond the casement.

Bilbo set down his now ruined quill. “Of course there are dwarves, Samwise Gamgee. It is Mid Year's Day tomorrow. They've come for the Lithe market fair, as they come every year.”

Sam slowed his jig. “But I was only little last time they came. Do they really come every year?”

Despite his ruined manuscript Bilbo grinned and, leaning against the door jamb, Frodo tried to hide his own amusement by taking another bite of his slice of toast. Sam was but a faunt and he found that he envied him, his childish excitement.

A large figure loomed behind little Sam. “Aye, they do, Sam lad. And if you don't give me a hand lifting the taters we'll have none to sell at market tomorrow. And that won't please your Ma 'cause she's wantin' some new cloth to make shirts.” Hamfast Gamgee touched his forehead in greeting to Mister Bilbo. “I'm sorry he disturbed you, sir. He was off afore I could stop him.” He shooed Sam before him, back to Number three's vegetable plot.

Bilbo shook his head, tentatively lifting a corner of the blotting paper, and sighing as the full extent of the disaster was revealed. “I shall have to start this all over again.” He examined the shattered point of his quill. “I don't suppose you have any spare goose quills? This was my last and it's beyond sharpening.”

Frodo nodded. “I think I have a spare. Maybe that's something we need to add to tomorrow's market list.”

“Market? I usually get my quills from Clover Mugwort.” 

“She had to kill her goose last month, Bilbo. Remember? It got caught up in a fence and broke its wing. We'll have to buy them from now on.” 

“Did she not keep any of the feathers?” Bilbo asked with some exasperation.

“She sold the down and finer ones to Mistress Chubb, who needed some to finish stuffing a pillow. And I'm afraid she took all the quills to market.” Frodo raised his brows. “Mistress Mugwart did ask you at the time whether you would like a few but you said you had enough.”

“I don't remember that,” Bilbo replied a little sourly.

Long used to his uncle's quixotic moods Frodo only smiled. “To be fair, I think you were deep in a translation at the time.”

Bilbo sniffed. “That would account for it.”

Frodo giggled as he left to fetch his uncle the spare quill while Bilbo pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and began to prick out the lines.

-0-

Mid Year's Day dawned bright and clear and, looking down the hill whilst drinking his second cup of tea, Frodo watched wagons being emptied and awnings raised on the party field. Nobody knew when the field had gained its appellation, but Bilbo said that the folk of Hobbiton had used it to hold parties and fairs since before even he was born. Sheep were grazed on it for most of the year, ensuring that the grass remained cropped short but the flock was now returned to Farmer Cotton's land and Frodo had joined all the other youngsters in raking clean the grass a few days earlier. 

Frodo's gaze was drawn back repeatedly to two brightly painted covered wagons set a little apart from the rest. He was not the only one. Hobbits throughout the field were watching with interest, some covertly, some of the younger ones less so. A tall dwarf jumped down from the tailgate of the larger wagon and someone began throwing items to him from inside. Frodo marvelled as the blue hatted figure caught everything nimbly, whatever its shape or size. 

All around the wagon hobbits stilled, as fascinated as Frodo, as the heap in his arms grew taller and taller, until it was clearly impossible for the bearer to see over the top of it. Staggering a little, the dwarf took half a dozen steps and then lowered the heap to the grass, losing not one single item. Straightening and finding himself the centre of attention, he swept off his hat and gave a low bow, before plonking it back on his dark head with a wide grin. His assembled audience clapped and laughed, before turning back to their own work.

“Show off,” Bilbo muttered good naturedly from behind Frodo. He held two mugs, swapping Frodo's empty one for one of the freshly filled ones in his hands. “I suspect that's Donnet. He's always been a brash one. Young dwarves tend to be a bit showy in my experience.”

Frodo absorbed that piece of information silently. He had lived in Hobbiton for a few years now but had always celebrated Lithe with family at Tookborough or Buckland, so this was his first experience of this travelling group of traders. In his opinion this tall person, with his almost black hair and beard, would stand out in any hobbit company, regardless of how un-brashly he behaved.

“Do the same dwarves come every year? I've only ever seen them from a distance, on the road from Buckland.” Frodo sipped his tea, judging it to have stood a little too long in the pot.

“Mostly. The main group remains the same, although occasionally a youngster travels with them, for the experience.”

“Are they the same dwarves you travelled with?”

Bilbo's face clouded for a moment. “Some of those are no longer with us. Of the others, most are now leaders of their people and have no time for trading trips. No. This group travels from the Lonely Mountain, through Rivendell or Rohan, on to Bree and then to the Shire, sometimes even as far as the Grey Havens on the coast. They have been making the trip, twice yearly, for as long as I can remember.”

“Even before your adventure?” Frodo tried not to grimace as he took another sip of his thick tea.

“Bless you, yes! Dwarves have been trading with hobbits since before we settled in the Shire. You could say that they moved west with us, for Master Elrond tells me that hobbits originally came from the other side of the Misty Mountains too.” Bilbo took a large swallow from his own cup and shuddered. “This tea is stewed. Let's go inside and have second breakfast. Then we can brew a fresh pot.”

-0-

By noon the party field was thronged with folk. Some had come by pony and cart, some dragged hand carts behind them and others had resorted to bringing wheelbarrows to carry their purchases home. In one corner the owner of the Ivy Bush had set up trestle tables under an awning and was dispensing ale. A hog had been roasting over the firepit next to him for several hours and there was now a queue of folk waiting to purchase a slice . . . or two. Other hobbits had taken this arrangement as a signal that this was the picnic area and so several families and groups had spread blankets and cloths upon the sweet grass for luncheon.

Living as close as they did, Bilbo and Frodo could have eaten at home but Bell and Hamfast Gamgee had sent their usual invitation to join their family, after first begin' their pardon at takin' such a liberty an' all. And Bilbo had made his usual reply that they were taking no liberty at all and he and Frodo would be pleased to accept. Deciding that they would enjoy some convivial company on this Midsummer's day, Frodo and Bilbo had packed an enormous picnic basket and were now searching the merry throng for their hosts.

Bilbo looked down at a little tug on his coat tails. Marigold Gamgee gave a gap-toothed grin from beneath her ginger mop and lisped, “Ma's thith way.” Bilbo smiled down at her. “Lead the way, little Miss Marigold,” he instructed with a small bow. Marigold's shy smile widened as she slipped a slightly sticky hand in his and began to tug toward an area by the hedge. There the Gamgee household were arranged at their ease around a huge red and white chequered tablecloth. Not that there was much cloth visible for Bell had been cooking and preparing for days. As the occupants of Bag End drew near the family made to rise but Bilbo waved them down at once.

“We don't stand on ceremony today. My goodness, Bell, but have been busy. But just in case, we brought some more to add to the feast. I hope you won't be offended.” He and Frodo lowered their basket and began to remove their offerings. 

Bell only bent to kiss little Marigold's curls as she settled at her mother's side. “Bless ye, sir. With two growing bairns to fill I'll welcome any food ye bring. Although ye needn't have bothered. We would have managed.”

“It's no bother.” Sam and Marigold's eyes grew wide and everyone began to lick their lips as Frodo made room on the cloth for Bilbo to set out their contribution to the Lithe feast.

Knowing that sugar was an expensive commodity and salad vegetables easy enough for the Gamgees to provide, Bilbo and Frodo had set too, making deserts. To the salads, pies, sandwiches, crusty bread, cheese, and fruit scones that Bell had brought the Baggins' added a strawberry flan, complete with a bowl of whipped cream, a sponge cake, oozing cream and raspberry jam, a moist carrot cake, decorated with tiny marzipan carrots and layered with buttercream. Last of all came a huge bowl of trifle, with it's carefully constructed layers of fruit, sponge cake, jelly, custard, and cream. This had taken Frodo the best part of yesterday to create, with the whipped cream added just this morning. He had even thought to pack several small bowls and spoons to dispense it into.

Bell grinned. “Well now, aint that just the perfect finish to the meal. Everyone help yerselves to whatever ye fancy. There's plenty for all.” When Sam's hand began to creep toward a marzipan carrot she tapped it firmly however. “Let’s start with some sandwiches and salad,” she suggested pointedly. Sam soon forgot any resentment as his Ma piled a plate for him, with egg sandwiches, tomatoes, pork pie and spring onions while Da poured lemonade for everyone.

While Bell filled a smaller plate for Marigold, Frodo began selecting for his own. “Did you sell all your potatoes, Master Gamgee?” he asked as he helped himself to some cold, minted potatoes from a bowl.

“I did that, Young Master, and some beetroot and broad beans too. Made a pretty penny,” Hamfast beamed proudly.

“What with the coin we got saved and that from the taters, I'll be able to get cloth for new shirts for my Ham and little Sam, with some left over to make an apron for Daisy if I cut it right,” Bell added around a mouthful of pie.

Frodo frowned. “Where is Daisy?” He had seen little of Daisy Gamgee since Thrimidge. Not that he found that any great matter of distress, but it was only polite to ask. Daisy, the Gamgee's eldest lass, had been tormenting him ever since he arrived in Hobbiton. He was under no illusion that she had designs upon his hand in marriage. She just liked practising her wiles upon him.

Hamfast grinned. “She's been helpin' out at the widow Goodbody's three days a week. Pansy don't cope so well, with her arthritis, and now the lads and our May are away from home, Bell can manage without her a bit more. I told Pansy Goodbody that we don't need payin' but she insisted on givin' her a couple of coppers a week and Daisy's been savin' for some cloth for a new party frock.” Then he added in a mutter, “What’s wrong with the old one I don’t know.”

His wife rolled her eyes. “It’s got a lemonade stain on it, remember?”

Ham winked at Frodo, who ducked his head before asking, “But where is she today?” 

“She's yonder, with the Bracegirdles, down by the dance square. They invited her for the day and some of the Bracegirdle lads and lasses are about the same age as our Daisy. No doubt they're makin' a lot of noise and silly gigglin',” Hamfast replied with a chuckle. “And if anyone were to ask me, they're welcome to make as much noise and gigglin' as they like, as long as they keep it over yonder side of the field.”

Bilbo raised his cup in mock salute to Hamfast and Bell cuffed her husband's arm playfully.

“You've not bought your cloth yet, then, Bell?” Bilbo asked as he helped himself to another sandwich.

“I've not had time. Although there's a trader come all the way from Michel Delving with some nice quality stuff.” She pointed with the slender green stem of a spring onion. “Next to them dwarves.”

Bilbo followed her direction. The dwarves were easily discovered for they had set up stalls outside their fancy covered wagons, stretching brightly coloured awnings to protect their wares. Next to them was a smaller open wagon, loaded with bolts of bright cloth. Bilbo even spotted the sheen of fine silk. A sign painted along the side of the wagon declared, “Hardeband Bentwhistle, Purveyor of Fine Fabrics To The Discerning Gentlehobbit, Michel Delving, The Shire.” 

“Isn't he the one who tailors your clothes, Bilbo?” Frodo asked. Bilbo had been threatening to take Frodo to his tailor for some time now and they had an appointment with Master Bentwhistle next week. The tween had recently undergone a growth spurt and all his clothes were coming up a little too short for comfort. They'd let down the braces as far as possible, but Bilbo had spotted Frodo wince upon occasion when bending to sit.

“My tailor is Bressingbard Bentwhistle. Hardeband is Bressingbard's brother. He does carry a nice line in fine patterned waistcoat silk. Elvish stuff, some of it.” He studied Frodo's now rather skimpy waistcoat. “I think we'll have a stroll over there after luncheon. You could do with a new suit for the Harvest Reel in a few months. If there's anything suitable we can pay for it and have Hardeband pass it on to his brother for our visit next week.”

Frodo grimaced. “Are you sure we could not just arrange a visit to Brandy Hall so that Aunt Buttercup could make one for me? She always managed quite well in the past.”

“Nonsense!” Bilbo pronounced firmly. “You are now a young gentlehobbit, needing to be fitted by a proper tailor, and Bressingbard Bentwhistle is the best in the Shire.”

Bell sent Frodo a commiseratory half smile. The step from lad to young master was not always an easy one, especially as heir to Bilbo Baggins. Bilbo liked his fine clothes, always had, but Frodo still wanted to climb trees and tickle trout in the stream. His uncle sometimes forgot how great a difference there was in their ages. Still, Bell had to concede that with Frodo's slender figure, any tailoring tricks that could be found to make him look like a properly rounded hobbit would be welcome.

“Ma, can I have some of Mr Frodo's trifle now? I've eaten some sandwiches,” Sam asked plaintively.

-0-

“Good day to you Mister Baggins. It has been some months since you last graced my establishment.” Hardeband Bentwhistle was a small, very rotund hobbit of middle years, wearing a full, tailored suit of deep green velvet, a fine gold silk waistcoat and a pale green, intricately tied cravat. The result of all this finery on a warm summer day was that he was perspiring profusely, using one hand to raise a large gold silk handkerchief to his brow, and the other to push a pair of gold wire rimmed spectacles up the not inconsequential slope of his nose.

“Hello, Hardeband. How is your lady wife nowadays?” Bilbo, fine damask waistcoat flapping open and his cravat long since tucked into his pocket, looked and sounded as cool as a cucumber.

Hardeband smiled ingratiatingly. “Nettle is very well indeed, although she does not care to travel to these events.”

Bilbo noticed a gleam in Hardeband's eye. It was well known that Nettle Bentwhistle tended to live up to her name and as a consequence, Hardeband did as much traveling as he could. Bilbo played along with the game however by stating, “I am sorry to hear that. You must miss her. Please give your good lady my regards when you return home.”

“I will, indeed. Now what can I do for you today, sir? I have some very nice elven silk that would make fine pocket handkerchiefs.” 

Hardeband impressed Frodo by managing to arrest the slide of his glasses with the finger of one hand whilst, at the same time, mopping his brow with the other. The lad wondered if that was akin to patting your stomach and rubbing your head . . . or was that the other way around?

“Let me introduce my nephew, Frodo. He and I have appointments with your brother next week and I was thinking that we could perhaps choose our fabrics now, as you are here.”

Hardeband assessed Frodo from down the long slope of his nose, taking in the breeches that only just covered the lad's knees, the waistcoat that was straining at the buttons and the ink spattered cuffs of the slightly grey shirt. 

“Indeed. What sort of material were you considering? I have a nice serviceable wool and hemp mix here.” Obviously deciding that this must be some poor relation, he directed Bilbo's gaze to a roll of dark grey stuff that was little better than that used to make potato sacks. Even Bell Gamgee, standing to one side examining some pretty floral dress fabric, turned up her nose at it.

Frodo was relieved to see his uncle wave it aside. “Oh, no, no. That won't do. As my heir Frodo is expected to keep up a certain standard of appearance you understand. No. We shall be ordering at least two suits, a new winter cloak, three or four waistcoats, a couple of pairs of additional breeches and half a dozen shirts.” He pointed to a large roll of fine, wine coloured tweed. “How about that for one suit?”

Hardeband's bushy brows had been climbing higher and higher as Bilbo enumerated Frodo's requirements and he beamed as Bilbo pointed to one of the most expensive worsted wool suitings in his collection, only recently arrived from Rohan. Frodo suspected, had he the spare hands to do so, Master Bentwhistle would have been rubbing them with glee.

“You have a good eye, Mister Baggins. That is a fine cloth that will make up very well. It will also suit the young masters colouring. May I suggest a waistcoat of this brown velvet, with perhaps even a touch of the same fabric on the jacket collar?” He signaled to a pimply lad, barely into his tweens, who immediately placed the two rolls of fabric side by side to demonstrate their compatibility. Hardeband Bentwhistle had his failings but even Frodo had to admit that the red-brown velvet was a perfect foil for the warm wine of the wool, not just in colour but also in texture. 

Bilbo turned to his nephew. “Well, Frodo? That would be very serviceable for the Harvest Reel, don't you think?”

Frodo blushed as the eyes of Hardeband, Bilbo, Bell, the assistant and several onlookers all turned to him. He tried to hide his ink stained cuffs behind his back. “Erm . . . yes. I'm sure it would, although perhaps it would be a bit expensive for Hobbiton?” he suggested.

“Nonsense, lad!” Bilbo scoffed. “A gentlehobbit always dresses well, wherever he may be. You never know what's around the corner.”

Frodo had to concede that, if anyone would know what may be around the corner, it was Bilbo Baggins but he settled for, “Then I'm sure it will be very nice.”

Bilbo shook his head before moving on to select several other fabrics to fulfill Frodo's sartorial obligations as the heir to Bag End. He decided that it would save a great deal of time if he simply made the decisions for Frodo on this occasion, or it would take all afternoon and Bilbo had a great deal more eating to do before nightfall.

Finally, they moved to the lighter fabrics and chose some white and some pale beige to make Frodo's shirts. Bell Gamgee had been waiting patiently to be served all this time and Frodo felt rather guilty. Hardeband pointedly ignored her, in favour of the larger sale, but now he found himself selecting the very same bolt of fabric that Bell was examining. Hardeband brushed her hand aside dismissively, so that his apprentice could cut the required length for Frodo's shirts and the young gentlehobbit cringed at such poor manners. 

Until that moment Bilbo had been so wrapped up in his own selection that he had not even noticed Bell. Now he stiffened and scowled at Hardeband as Bell narrowed her eyes and stepped back. “Were you wanting some of this too, Mistress Gamgee?” Bilbo asked pointedly, indicating that she should precede him. “I do apologise for monopolising Mister Bentwistle all this time.”

Now Bell straightened. “Tis no bother, Mr Bilbo. I can wait. I was only wantin' some of this white to make a couple of shirts.” She sniffed. “If tis a fair price of course.”

Hardeband bristled and covered it by moving swiftly to stop his glasses escaping the end of his nose. “I always charge a fair price, madam. Of course, my wares are a cut above the usual stuffs one finds in these local markets and that is reflected in the price, but they wear so much better and I always feel that justifies the cost in the long run.”

Frodo noted silently that the cost would also probably preclude Bell Gamgee from being able to afford the fine white shirting, and he glanced aside in time to see her eyes drop to the small purse in her hand. No doubt she was already doing some rapid mental calculations. 

Bilbo noticed too however, and offered a smile to Hardeband so sweet that it made Frodo's teeth wince, even as he lifted the bolt of fabric and handed it over to the apprentice. “I should like to purchase this. What price for the entire bolt. I am certain that we can come to some arrangement for such a large purchase.”

“Oh yes, indeed, sir. For the whole bolt I would be willing to make a substantial discount.” He named a figure that made Frodo gasp but Bilbo only nodded. 

“Excellent. Deliver it to your brother, Hardeband. Tell him we will need two shirts for me and two for Frodo. I shall bring the rest home after our fittings and Mistress Gamgee can have the larger part of the bolt.” Here Bilbo's smile widened even further. “She and I will negotiate a fair price. If Mistress Gamgee has no objections to waiting for the fabric that is?” He turned to bow to Bell, who's eyes were now dancing with amusement at Hardeband's discomfort. Both she and Hardeband realised that Bell Gamgee would now be getting her fabric at a much lower price than Master Bentwistle would have charged her.

“None at all, Mister Bilbo, and I thank ye kindly.” Frodo stifled a giggle as Bell dropped Bilbo a very proper courtesy.

“No, thank you for your patience, Bell dear.” Bilbo bowed again, and Frodo developed a sudden cough as his uncle gallantly offered his arm to Bell. Mistress Gamgee stuck her nose in the air and strolled off with Bilbo in a sashay that set her full skirts swaying in a way that would have done credit to her tweenage daughter, Daisy. As they departed Bilbo called back over his shoulder, “Send me the bill when you're ready, Hardeband, there's a good chap.”


	27. Driving Deals With Dwarves

As it happened, the next stall was that set up by the dwarves and Frodo wondered if Donnett had been listening to their conversation with Hardeband Bentwistle, for he doffed his hat and made a sweeping bow to both Bell and Bilbo. “Good day to you, gentlehobbits. Donnett at your service,” he offered with a broad and welcoming grin.

Bilbo released Bell to make a formal bow in return. “Bilbo Baggins at yours and your family's. We met last year but let me introduce my companions, Mistress Bell Gamgee, a neighbour, and Frodo Baggins, my nephew.”

Bell bobbed in greeting and Frodo made his best bow, feeling much more comfortable in the presence of this unpretentious fellow than he had before Master Bentwistle.

The black bearded dwarf's grin grew even wider. Jamming his hat back upon his head, Donnet turned to call over his shoulder into one of the covered carts. “Hoy, Bot! No need to go looking. Bilbo Baggins is here.”

“Well, of course he's here. We're in Hobbiton aren't we? I'm nipping up to Bag End this afternoon,” came the somewhat annoyed reply, followed by a long white beard and a large round face peering from between the curtains of the wagon entrance. 

“No. I mean he's here,” Bot replied with a wave in Bilbo's direction.

“Oh. Well, why didn't you say so?” Bot jumped down from the cart and Frodo would have sworn that the ground trembled as he landed. He was followed by several more, who all stood in a line and bowed low to Bilbo. A chorus of, “At your service,” was followed by Bilbo's repeated, “At yours and your family's.”

Then came the introductions. Bot stepped forward to name his companions to Bell and Frodo. “I am Bot, the leader of this company. Let me introduce you to Gribble, Tibble, Kwilim and Dwilim. Donnett, you've already met.”

Bot seemed to be the oldest of the group, his white beard dressed with gold beads and so long that he tucked it into his wide belt. Gribble and Tibble appeared slightly younger, although it was difficult to tell beneath their bushy red beards. Tibble had on a large white apron and, from the stains upon it, was apparently the cook for their party. Kwilim and Dwilim had brown hair and arresting green eyes which declared them to be related in some way. 

All were dressed in expensive looking tooled leather jerkins and fine linen shirts, but Frodo noted the gleam of mail beneath when they moved, and their huge boots were more than serviceable. The parting of the cart's curtains also provided a glimpse of an alarming assortment of axes and knives and Kwilim grinned and twitched them closed again when he saw Frodo's eyes widen.

“Now that we are introduced you must all promise to come along to Bag End later for supper,” announced Bilbo. 

To his consternation, instead of replying straight away the dwarves formed a huddle, whispering among themselves for some time until Bot stepped forward. “We thank you very kindly for your most excellent offer, but I am not altogether sure that we would all fit in a hobbit hole. I understand that they can be quite . . . compact.”

Bell looked scandalised but Bilbo only chuckled. “Nonsense my dear fellow. Bag End is quite spacious and at one time entertained fourteen of your fellow dwarves.” 

Frodo stepped forward to add, “And a wizard.”

Bot removed his hat and scratched his balding head. “What am I thinking? Of course. How could I have forgotten?” He turned to his companions and received a chorus of nods. “We would be honoured, Mister Baggins.”

“That's settled, then. Frodo and I will see you for supper. Will seven o'clock be too early?”

“That will be perfect,” Bot replied. “It gives us time to clear away the goods and make ourselves presentable.”

“Good, good. Well, good day to you, sirs.” Bilbo turned to leave but Frodo tugged at his sleeve.

“Uncle, they have quills.”

“What? Oh yes. Perfect.” Bilbo selected a couple of rather grand snowy white feathers and examined the tips.

“Is it pens yer wantin?” Gribble asked with a burr, his eyes acquiring an assessing gleam.

“Yes. We are down to our last couple and it is most vexing,” Bilbo replied. “How much would you like for these?”

“Before ye buy them let me see if I can interest ye in these.” He opened a small narrow wooden box to reveal something that made Bilbo's eyes widen.

“Oh my! Elven writing pens. You even have the spare nibs!” He wiped a hand on his waistcoat before reaching in to lift a fine, intricately carved wooden rod a hand-span long, with a beautiful silver ferrule at one end, into which he now pushed the delicate silver nib that Gribble passed to him. He held it up for Frodo's inspection. “I have not seen one of these since I was in Rivendell. The nibs last much longer than a quill and write so smoothly. They’re even better than the ones Tom Buckleby makes.”

Frodo leaned in to examine the fine floral carving that wound about the rod. Harry Mugwort could not have produced better and he had been the best woodworker in the Shire. “It is beautiful, Bilbo. But will we be able to get replacement nibs if we need them?”

Gribble's eyes gleamed brighter at the prospect of repeat trade. “Absolutely, laddie. In fact, once we know that ye may need them we will ensure that we carry them on all future visits to the Shire,” he replied expansively. “But just one more moment, Mr Baggins. I see that ye are a gentlehobbit of discerning tastes, so I will show ye something very special.” He ducked beneath the table and much rummaging and clinking was heard before he re-appeared with another little box. This one was made of some fine white stone that was carved in deep relief with a design of entwining leaves and roses. With great ceremony he slowly lifted the hinged lid.

Nestled securely within padded green velvet was another fine pen, only this one was not made of wood. Glistening in the sunlight it appeared to be made of some clear crystal, carved into a fine twisting spiral, the tip ending with an eye to which was attached a delicate gold silk tassel. The ferrule was gold and so were the three nibs secured within their own little holder inside the lid. Bell Gamgee leaned in to inspect it, awe sounding clear in her little gasp. “Tis a thing of beauty. I can't imagine a body darin' to use it. It looks like it would blow away on yer next breath,” she declared softly.

Even Bilbo and Frodo were silent for a moment, then Bilbo reached out to run a finger along its length. “This surely came from Dale.”

Gribble smirked knowingly but it was Bot who replied. “No indeed. This was made by the elves, Master Baggins. From the hidden valley of Rivendell and the house of Lord Elrond himself. We were going to see if we could sell it in Mithlond but if ye take a fancy to it . . .” He blinked. “That reminds me . . . I have a package for ye. A gift from that verra lord.”

Kwilim vaulted back into the cart, reappearing in seconds with a large, cloth wrapped bundle that he threw to Bot. Frodo noted that it must be heavy for Bot flexed his knees as he caught it surely. Bilbo untied a fine blue satin ribbon that secured it, handing it absently to Bell, who ran appreciative fingers along its length before beginning to wrap it about her fingers in a neat roll. The fine figured green velvet fell open to reveal a neat stack of creamy paper and Bilbo beamed in delight. 

“How very thoughtful of Master Elrond. He must know how difficult it sometimes is to get paper in the Shire,” Frodo noted with a smile.

Bilbo scoffed. “Yes, well, it would help if there were more demand for it. People here really do not read and write enough.”

Bell was not about to let that slide. “Readin' an' writin' is a wealthy hobbit's pastime, Mr Bilbo. Not that I don't thank ye for teachin' my Sam, but if he's got nothin' to read what's the point?”

Frodo was surprised but Bilbo only smiled indulgently at the good lady. “I confess that books are expensive, but isn’t it good to hear from May occasionally? If you could read and write you wouldn’t have to rely upon Sam and you could write to your sons, instead of having to wait for a message via Tom Carter.”

Bell was silent, and Frodo suspected that she was considering his uncle's words. With three of her children now scattered throughout the farthings, letters would be a comfort indeed. At least she got word from May, but Frodo determined to help Sam compose some letters to her sons during their next writing lesson. Sam’s brothers may not be able to read them but there was always someone in each community that could relate the contents.

Bot held out the package of paper and Frodo stepped in to accept it for his uncle. Bilbo smiled his thanks. “Thank you, lad. Just nip up to Bag End with it, would you? Pop it on the table by my writing desk.”

Frodo complied at once and Bilbo handed over to Bell the fine fabric it had been wrapped in. “Why don't you have this and the ribbon, Bell. I'm sure you will make better use of it than I.”

Bell accepted both with a wide smile and, having folded the fabric carefully, then stood stroking the fine stuff, her eyes distant as she considered what to make with it. Perhaps a new weskit for Ham or a couple of pretty cushions. 

As soon as Frodo was out of sight Bilbo returned his attention to Bot. “How much for the pen?”

Bot pursed his lips and stroked a hand down the length of his luxuriant beard. “One silver penny.”

Bilbo's eyes widened. “Preposterous. I could buy a decent pony for that.”

All the dwarves leaned close to listen and Bot's bushy eyebrows rose. “But could you write with it? I could sell this easily enough to Lord Cirdan's folk on the coast.” 

Bilbo had grown used to the ways of dwarves, however. “But carrying it that distance is a risky business. It's a delicate thing and the roads are not as safe as they once were. Better three farthings in your pocket now than a pile of broken bits in a few days time.”

“Three farthings is not what I was hoping for.” Bot waited while Bilbo considered further.

“If you throw in one of the wooden pens as well, you can have your silver penny. That's my last offer.”

The dwarves formed another huddle in which there were some heated but whispered exchanges. Finally, Bot turned back, holding out his hand. “Done.”

Bilbo pumped his huge fist. “Perfect. Now I shall have a new pen and the other I shall set aside for Frodo's birthday present.”

Bell wondered which would go to Frodo. The lad was still a tween, although more careful and sweet natured than some. Even so, a crystal pen would be a little fancy for him, in her opinion. Then again, Bilbo Baggins was known for his extravagance. He'd be just as likely to gift it to her little Sam, upon a whim.

Now Bilbo grinned as Gribble held out his hand for the coin, testing it between his canines before disappearing it into his pocket. Kwilim began to wrap both purchases in strong brown paper and string but when he made to hand the parcels over Bilbo waved them away. “I've no room in my pockets at present. Why not bring them along to supper?”

“Right you are, Mr Baggins.” Gribble turned to Bell Gamgee and the gleam returned to his eyes when he saw her gently stroke a little polished stone threaded upon a fine silver chain. “As a friend of Mr Baggins I may be able to do a good deal on that for ye, Mistress.”

Bell snatched back her hand as though scolded then sniffed. “Tis a mite too rich for the likes of me, even with a deal. My Ham needs new shirts more than I need that.” She moved on to a box of brightly coloured ribbons. “How much fer a ribbon?” she asked as she fingered the fine weave.

“There's over a yard in each so, as yer a friend o' Mr Baggins, five for a farthing.” Gribble tried for an innocent expression and failed. 

Bell snorted, sure of her ground when it came to ribbons. “I'll give ye a farthin' for ten,” she announced, hands on ample hips.

Gribble knew the game well. “Seven for a farthing. Ye'll not find better this side o' the Misty Mountains and portage this far does nay come cheap.” He folded his arms.

“They're pretty, I'll grant ye, but I could buy material to dress my Mari with that much. I'm only wantin' to trim Daisy's frock.” She frowned, folding her own arms. “Eight for a farthin. Take it or leave it as ye wish.”

The two protagonists eyed each other good-naturedly over the box of ribbons as Bilbo looked on with some amusement. Gribble pursed his lips and held his ground until Bot nudged him with an elbow. “Ye drive a hard bargain, Mistress.” Gribble held out his hand and Bells eyes shone as bright as the copper farthing she dropped in his meaty fist.

Bilbo left his neighbour to her selection but drew Bot aside for a quiet word.

-0-

“There you are, Ham,” Bilbo announced brightly as he claimed a space on the grass by the side of the Gamgee's replenished picnic cloth. 

Hamfast grinned. “I reckon I weren't that difficult to find. Someone's got to watch the faunts and food an' I'm not one for shoppin'. Is my Bell still at it?”

Bilbo popped a bright red radish in his mouth. “I left her selecting ribbons for Daisy's new dress.”

Hamfast shook his head, offering Bilbo a cup of cider as he noted his eyes watering. “Them radishes are a mite stronger than usual. I got the seeds from a fella down Hardbottle way last year. I told my Bell to get summat for herself, but she always puts the bairns first.”

The cup was half empty before Bilbo could continue. “She was admiring a little pendent brought by the dwarves, but she settled upon the ribbons instead.”

“A pendent you say? I wonder how much they're wantin' for it. I've some coin set aside for my birthday and I wanted to get her somethin' special this year. She's been missin' May.” Hamfast smiled as his youngest held out a napkin and Bilbo accepted it to mop his brow and dab at his still watering eyes.

Bilbo selected a sandwich, lifting a corner to peep at the contents to check for any more radishes, before taking a bite. He swallowed politely before replying. “Would you like me to accompany you to discuss the price? I have some experience haggling with dwarves and would be happy to place myself at your disposal.”

Hamfast cut a chicken sandwich into fingers before placing it on little Marigold's plate, whilst the avidly listening Sam pealed a hardboiled egg. After a moment's consideration Hamfast shook his head. “I can't see 'em drivin' a harder bargain than Ted Sandyman.”

Bilbo grinned. “You have a point. Would you like me to watch the faunts while you go across? I think Bell was considering going to check upon Daisy. If she returns here I shall keep her occupied.”

“Thank you, Mr Bilbo, sir. I'll be back in a jiffy.” Hamfast jumped to his feet and wove his way through the crowds.

Bilbo chuckled and gave the returning Frodo a wink. “A jiffy? I doubt that if I know Gribble.”

-0-

That evening, while the party was still in full swing down in the field, a line of dwarves made their way quietly up the lane to Bag End. Bell Gamgee was the only person who noted them, as she stood at the kitchen window wiping Marigold's face and hands. Her heart caught, and she murmured to her youngest, “I hope as how Mr Bilbo ain't goin' to go travellin' again. He's got young Master Frodo to look to nowadays.”

Marigold beamed a gap-toothed smile and Bell gathered her up. “Come along my little lass. Time ye was in bed. Ye've had a long day.”

Taking a last gulp of his milk and stifling a yawn, Sam followed his Ma and younger sister from the room.

-0-

Both Baggins' looked up at a loud knock upon Bag End's round front door. “That will be our guests. Go and turn the sausages Frodo, while I let them in.”

Frodo hurried off and Bilbo straightened his waistcoat and threw open the door with a, “Welcome, welcome! Please come in gentle sirs.”

The dwarves, led by Bot, wiped their huge boots on the doormat and stepped into Bag End's wide hallway. At least it usually seemed wide, but crowded with six dwarves it did not seem quite so spacious. Each carried a parcel and Bilbo waved them to a large, flat topped, chest, above which was a line of pegs. “Please, put your packages down over there and hang up your hats.” 

Bot glanced about the hall and then surreptitiously handed over two smaller packages to Bilbo. “These are the purchases you made.”

Bilbo accepted them with a nod and tucked them away in a corner, behind a large potted plant. “Come into the dining room. Supper is almost ready. We're just waiting for the sausages.”

“They're here, Uncle.” Frodo arrived with a huge platter, piled high with Bill Bracegirdle's best herbed sausages. Gribble rubbed his hands, several of the company inhaled appreciatively, and everyone hurried to follow Frodo and the sausages into the dining room.

It was two hours before Bilbo heard anything beyond, “Pass the sausages,” or “Any more beer?” or, “Excellent mashed potato”. Then, having helped with the washing up . . . for what good guest would not . . . they all adjourned to the parlour. There they settled down and lit their pipes, listening to the fading festivities down the hill. 

As he opened the window Bilbo saw several revelers staggering arm in arm up the lane, and noted that there would be many a thick head tomorrow morning. He had taken his role as guardian quite seriously today and was relieved, when he turned back into the room, to find Frodo's clear bright eyes watching. “Shall I ask Master Gamgee to take his wheelbarrow down to the field? Some of them may need help up the hill.”

Bilbo shook his head. “No. It's a warm dry night. It will do them no harm to sleep in the field and may even teach some the cost of over indulgence. Hamfast works hard all year and deserves a good night's sleep in his bed.”

Gribble's teeth flashed in the candlelight. “Aye, and he's got a braw lass to warm it for him. Ouch!”

Bot kicked his companion's foot soundly and Frodo smothered a giggle when Bilbo flashed him a warning glance. “Bell Gamgee was considered quite a catch in her day and she's raised her brood well. Hamfast is blessed and he knows it.” Bilbo settled into his chair by the hearth, with Frodo on the hassock at his side. “How does your lady wife fare, Bot?”

“Gild is doing well, thank you. We're grandparents now and she's doting on the little lad. He's already walking and she found him playing with his Da's hammer and chisel just before I left. The lad's a born tunneler,” Bot replied proudly.

“Congratulations! I know children are very precious to dwarves . . . not that they're any less so in the Shire . . . but I understand that your people tend toward smaller families.” Bilbo drew deep on his pipe and blew out a large, fragrant, smoke ring.

Were the candle light brighter Bilbo had no doubt that Bot would be blushing. “Yes, well. Even after all these years not everyone has returned to Erebor. We've plenty of halls yet to fill and Dain Ironfoot has issued an invitation for any dwarf who would like to move. We've a lot of rebuilding still to do.”

“Even torn by Smaug as they were, I remember your halls were quite beautiful,” Bilbo offered wistfully. “I wish I could see them now that they are being restored.”

Frodo dropped his head and Bilbo laid a hand upon his shoulder. “But not until I see this young lad come of age at the least. He is family and I have few enough of them. Frodo here is my heir and I mean to teach him everything I know before I even consider taking to the road again.” 

Lifting his head with a smile, Frodo laid a hand over his uncle's. “And I promise to be a good pupil.”

“I'll settle for a good nephew, lad, and you only need to continue to be yourself to achieve that. But here, now . . . This conversation is becoming quite maudlin. Did I see a fiddle among the packages our visitors brought with them? How about some music, Bot? I think I may even remember the words to one or two dwarven songs. . .”

So it was that half an hour later the last stragglers up the hill above Hobbiton heard the merry music of pipe, drum and fiddle, accompanied by the bright voices of Frodo and Bilbo Baggins, dancing on the pipeweed scented air that floated from Bag End's open parlour window.


	28. Clothes Maketh The Gentlehobbit

Chapter 28 – CLOTHES MAKETH THE GENTLEHOBBIT 

“So, when do you go to Michel Delvin'?” Bartimus asked as he added another split log to the heap in Frodo's arms. He grinned when Frodo grunted under the extra weight.

“This only for the cooking range you know. We're not stocking up for Yule,” his companion grumbled. “And it's next week, if you must know.”

Bartimus skipped ahead to open the back door then helped stack the wood in the basket by the hearth. His grin widened. “Looking forward to it, are we?”

“Ha, ha.” The words were pronounced with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

“I'm sure I don't know why you're in such a stew over it,” Bartimus offered as he followed Frodo to the sink to wash their hands. “'tis simple enough . . . once you've taken off all your clothes. You just have to stand in the middle of the shop and get measured.”

“It's the, 'all your clothes,' bit that worries me. Will I really have to take off absolutely everything, do you think?” Frodo asked with quite genuine concern.

Bartimus had never been to a tailor himself but he'd heard stories and, whether he believed them or not, they were good fodder for teasing his friend. He pretended to consider for a moment as he dried his hands. “I expect so. I suppose tis the only way to get a good fit.”

Frodo accepted the towel and began to dry his own hands. “But in the middle of the shop, Barti? What if a lady comes in?”

His companion shrugged. “I don't suppose many ladies go to tailors, Frodo.” They both turned as Bilbo entered the kitchen.

“Hello Bartimus, lad. Thank you for helping with the firewood.” 

Frodo snorted. “He didn't actually do that much.”

“I helped load you up. You carried much more that way than you would have done alone,” Bartimus declared with a much put-upon expression.

“Yes. And my shoulders and arms will be reminding me of that fact for days to come,” Frodo replied with a chuckle.

Bilbo only shook his head as he helped himself to a biscuit from the plate on the kitchen table and headed back into the hall. With a mischievous grin he called back over his shoulder, “You're a strapping lad, Frodo. You've nothing to be ashamed of in front of the ladies.”

-0-

Frodo helped himself to another mouthful of mashed potato and, having satisfied his immediate hunger, took a moment to study the tap room of the Pony and Pickle. Even as one of the better establishments in the Shire, it still carried the pervasive smell of all public houses that served food . . . beer, boiled cabbage and pipeweed. The 'P and P', as it was called locally, had originally been dug into a conveniently placed chalk bank close to the Great East Road. Over the years, however, it had expanded so that now only the stables were dug into the slope, and the tap and guest rooms were contained in a long single story wooden building set in front of the bank. 

This meant that they were sitting in a long, low ceilinged room with a bar across one wall and large stone fireplaces at either end. Frodo was much relieved to find, upon entering earlier, that neither fire was lit . . . the landlord’s only concession to summer. The rafters were almost hidden by a pale haze of pipeweed, for it was cooler indoors on this scorching summer day, and most of the patrons had retreated to the relative gloom of the tap room. Raff Greenbank had made one other concession to the weather by throwing open all the windows, which Frodo considered a blessing for he could already feel damp patches developing beneath his arms. He made a mental note to wash and change his shirt before setting out for the tailor’s shop, even as another part of his mind wondered whether it would be necessary if he was expected to strip off anyway.

Across the table his uncle Bilbo was attacking a steak and kidney pie with some gusto. For all that it was high summer the patrons of the inn were a conservative lot and salad would never grace the menu of the Pony and Pickle, so Bilbo and Frodo were tucking into steak and kidney pie, mashed potato and gravy, peas and carrots.

“Will we have far to walk to the tailor?” Frodo asked with a marked lack of enthusiasm. 

Bilbo chewed and swallowed before replying. “Not far. I’d say it’s about ten minutes from here. Just around the corner on the High Street.” He did not seem to sense Frodo’s trepidation, helping himself to some more peas. 

Frodo took a sip of his cider and set down his knife and fork. He had been dreading this day ever since Bilbo had announced the appointment a month ago. He had never been to a proper tailor before and friends had been teasing him with images of being stripped naked and measured in very intimate places. He suspected that the tales were exaggerated but had been unable to convince himself completely, and Bilbo seemed to take a perverse delight in neither confirming nor denying the stories.

Bilbo set his cutlery upon his empty plate and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “That pie was every bit as good as I remember. Peony Greenbank has a light touch with her pastry that would rival Bell Gamgee.”

Frodo could not resist a smile. “I hope you’ve never told Mistress Gamgee that.”

Bilbo shuddered. “Goodness, no! She does our laundry and I wouldn’t want to risk her hand slipping with the starch when ironing my smalls.”

Frodo shifted uncomfortably on his stool. Of course, that could be more to do with the fact that a recent growth spurt had resulted in his breeches becoming a little snug in the inseem, the main reason for their visit to Michel Delving. “What time is our appointment?”

Bilbo studied him with a smile. “It’s in an hour. Why don’t we go and have a quick wash, and change into fresh linens? By the time we’ve done that and strolled around there, it will be time.”

Bilbo’s estimate was a little generous for within half an hour Frodo re-entered the tap room, to find his uncle waiting for him. The lad pasted on a smile and paused to take a surreptitious sniff at his armpits before joining Bilbo, who was standing at the open door while his eyes accustomed themselves to the bright sunshine outside. The older hobbit clapped Frodo on the shoulder and chuckled. “Don’t fret so. Bressingbard Bentwhistle is a capital chap. His father, Bergess, was my tailor before him.”

Michel Delving was the main town of the Shire and, as such, boasted a whole street of shops, said street being called, of course, The High Street. Folks in the Shire did not generally go in much for fancy street names. Although the original residences of the town had been dug into a group of low chalk hills, the population soon outgrew them and there were now many small low houses with turf or thatched roofs and round windows and doors. 

The Bentwhistle family had lived in Michel Delving for generations, however, and their establishments were set next door to each other within a hillside. Their properties were unusual in being two storied, by the simple expedient of digging two layers into the hill. The lower level held their shops and storage areas and the families lived on the upper. 

The door to one of the shops stood open to allow the free circulation of air, and a board above the two large round windows proclaimed the owner to be, “Bressingbard Bentwhistle, Outfitter to the Discerning Gentlehobbit”. Frodo followed his uncle into the dim interior and was greeted with the smell of warm wool and lavender. It took a few moments for Frodo’s eyes to adjust after the brilliance of outside, but the interior slowly came into focus.

The shop was quite small compared to the drapers next door, with shelves containing just a few bolts of fabric along the back wall and a large, immaculately polished counter along another. Several large pattern books graced a shelf above the counter and curtains completely covered the remaining wall, beyond which was heard a murmur of good natured voices. Bilbo rang a small brass hand bell that sat upon the corner of the counter.

The curtains parted instantly and a rather dapper hobbit with a broad smile and twinkling green eyes appeared. His smile widened, and he stepped up to pump Bilbo’s hand. “Bilbo! It’s good to see you again. How long has it been?”

Two brothers of more opposite temperament than Bressingbard and Hardeband Bentwhistle, Frodo could not imagine. Hardeband’s haughty attitude was thrown into sharp relief by this hobbit’s bright disposition, and the knot of tension that had been sitting in Frodo’s chest for weeks began to loosen.

Now those shining eyes shifted to Frodo as he offered his hand. “And this must be your new heir. It’s good to meet you at last, Master Frodo.”

Frodo shook Bressingbard’s warm, dry hand, hoping that the other did not notice the perspiration in his. “Just, Frodo will do, sir. And it is good to meet you, too.”

“Then you shall call me, Bressingbard.” He stood back to study Frodo from head to toe. “Hardi. has given me the fabrics and your order. My brother has his faults, but I have to give him credit for choosing the right colours for you.”

Frodo swallowed as he tried to choose the polite reply. “He was quite . . . helpful.”

Bressingbard gave a laugh that seemed to start somewhere in his feet and climb up his ample torso to shake him like an aspen in a high wind. “Hah! My brother is a pain in the backside. But he’s my brother so I love him, despite it.”

Frodo found his merry giggle at last.

“I take it he’s delivered the fabrics, then?” Bilbo asked with a broad grin.

“He has. If you’d like to come through to the fitting room, I’ll just take young Frodo’s measurements and we can decide on the style.” As Bressingbard spoke he ushered Frodo through the curtains into a small room, with another door at the back. “Will you be wanting just the one waistcoat this time for yourself, Bilbo? Hardi only brought me a length of waistcoat silk for you, and a full bolt of shirt linen for some reason.”

Bilbo settled down upon a small upright chair in the corner of the room while Bressingbard helped a suddenly reluctant Frodo remove his jacket. The tailor tutted as he saw the state of Frodo’s shirt sleeves. “I can see that some of that linen will be put to good use.”

Bilbo chuckled. “Yes. Frodo needs a couple of good shirts from that bolt and some smallclothes, but I’ll be taking the rest away with me if you don’t mind. I promised it to a neighbour.”

Bressingbard drew out a large, hardback book, opened it to a fresh page and began to write Frodo’s name at the top. “I hope you haggled well with my brother. It’s not often he gets to sell a whole bolt of linen. Once I’ve taken Frodo’s measurements I can calculate the yardage for his shirts and get Arlo to cut it.” He draped a measuring tape about his neck and led Frodo to the centre of the small room, where he began to circumnavigate the lad.

Frodo tried not to fidget but failed when it came to holding back a blush, for he was not used to such close scrutiny. Bressingbard seemed not to notice as he commented aloud. “Right shoulder slightly higher than left, but a bit of padding will fix that. It’s a common problem. Good posture otherwise.” He ran a business-like hand across Frodo’s shoulder blades. “Good straight back and a neat waist.” He grinned. “Not had time to thicken out properly yet. Give it another twenty years or so.” Bressingbard slapped his own ample but beautifully waist-coated girth. “Now, young hobbit. Have you been measured for a suit before?”

Frodo shook his head and Bressingbard chuckled. “I thought so. No doubt you’ve heard all sorts of embarrassing tales. None of them are true. You will not be required to remove any more clothing than you have now, and I have nothing more than a professional interest in your anatomy.”

Frodo blew out a large breath and behind him Bilbo winked at the tailor.

Bressingbard nodded. “I thought so. Some people seem to take a perverse delight in frightening new clients and, if you don’t mind the observation, you were standing there as taut as a fishing line with a ten pound trout.”

“Aunt Buttercup has always made my clothes in the past,” Frodo observed.

Bressingbard examined the inside of Frodo’s discarded jacket. “And a good job she’s made of the stitching I must say, but she hasn’t the knack for fitting I think, and this collar does not lie well.” He set the jacket aside and drew off his measuring tape. 

“You will feel the difference when you have a properly fitted suit. Now, stand straight but comfortably, if you please.”

Frodo was surprised as the tailor began his measurements. Aunt Buttercup used to simply measure around his chest and the length of his arm but Bressingbard took what felt like dozens of measurements . . . around the chest, from centre back to shoulder, from centre back, across the shoulder and down to the wrist, from shoulder to elbow, around the neck, from nape to waist, nape to hip, under-arm to wrist, around the armhole, and the circumference of upper arm and wrist. Each measurement was entered neatly in the book and with each Frodo began to relax a little more.

Bressingbard ruled a line across the page and turned back. “Now I need to measure for your breeches.” If he noted a certain tension creep back into Frodo’s form, he made no comment. “We’ll start with the waist and hip. Please raise your hands to chest level, elbows out.”

Frodo complied and was somewhat reassured when Bressingbard stood to the side to take the measurements.

“Now, if you could just set your feet slightly apart?”

Doing as requested, Frodo was a little nervous when the tailor ran his measuring tape from waist front to waist back, between Frodo’s legs. But Bressingbard’s actions were so impersonal and deft that he began to relax again. 

“How long would you like the legs, young sir? I know that Bilbo likes his to finish six inches above the floor, but it is the fashion at present to have the hem fall just below the knee. I think, with your slender shape, you would look well in the new length. You've a shapely calf that would take the shorter length.”

Frodo glanced back at Bilbo and the older hobbit just waved aside the unspoken question. “The choice is yours lad, but you’re only young once.”

Frodo’s eyes sparkled to match his grin. “Then I’d like the shorter length, please.”

Bressingbard measured from crotch to floor, outside waist to floor, crotch to knee, then made the relevant notations in his book. “That’s all the measurements for now. I have enough to cut and make the first fitting. One last question regarding the breeches. To which side do you usually dress.”

Frodo blinked. “I’m sorry?”

Bilbo chuckled. “He means, when you put it away do you lay it to the left or the right leg?”

Frodo suddenly found himself blushing furiously and was so discombobulated that he had to glance down to confirm. “Left.”

Bressingbard made a note. “One can usually tell but it’s always best to ask so that things can be properly accommodated.”

He ruled another line and then motioned Frodo to a seat. “That’s the boring stuff done. Now we get to the interesting bit.” He pulled out a huge book and placed it upon the work table before his customer and Bilbo drew his own chair closer.

The book turned out to be filled with drawings of jackets. Some came only to the waist and others almost to the knee. Some had two lines of buttons and others only one; those buttons arranged in two’s, three’s, fours and even fives. Some had turned back cuffs to reveal fancy shirt sleeves and others were trimmed with buttons or braid. Some had wide lapels and others narrow. There were even some with no lapels. Each new page required a decision and after over an hour Frodo was beginning to lose interest. Fortunately, Bilbo stepped in when his nephew’s eyes began to glaze over.

After another hour of discussion Frodo finally escaped from the small, stuffy room, to the fresh air of the shop doorway. The young hobbit took in a deep breath, wincing when he felt a stitch pop in the under-arm seem of his shirt. If all the activity of this afternoon resulted in more comfortable clothes, Frodo decided it was worth any indignity. 

As though he had been reading his thoughts Bilbo spoke. “Now, that was relatively painless, wasn’t it?”

Frodo obliged him with a rueful smile. “Not nearly as bad as I was expecting.”

Bilbo grinned, slapping him on the shoulder and then leading the way back to the inn. “There’s a valuable lesson there, Frodo my lad. Don’t go worrying too much about the adventures of tomorrow. Things are invariably never as black as you imagine they will be.”

Frodo followed. It was all very well for Bilbo to say that when he had already been on such a great adventure. Frodo assumed that his own adventures were yet to come.

-0-

“Here you are, Marigold. I’ve brought you a new dolly.” Frodo held out the new toy and the youngest Gamgee accepted it with a wide grin.

“Thank you, Master Frodo.” She gathered the rag doll close and Bell Gamgee bent to examine it, frowning a little.

“Yer Aunt Petunia been sendin’ presents again? She still thinks yer a lass, then?” she asked with a chuckle.

“I’m afraid so. You should have seen the stuffed toy she sent me last month. Bilbo says it’s supposed to be an oliphaunt but I’m still not sure.” 

Bell frowned. “Why has it got three eyes?”

Frodo joined her in examining the doll over Marigold’s shoulder. “I think the two blue buttons are eyes and the pink is a nose.”

“Ah. That would make that red woollen blob a mouth then.”

“I think so, but with Aunt Petunia it’s not always wise to assume.”

Bell tilted her head, perhaps hoping that a different perspective would make all clear. “She looks like she’s stickin’ her tongue out.”

“She does a bit. We could give her the benefit of the doubt and say she has a rather full bottom lip.”

Marigold was blithely ignoring this conversation, concentrating instead upon undressing her new doll and beaming with delight when she discovered that it was wearing not only a skirt but two petticoats, a pair of breeches and three pairs of knickers. When Bell raised a brow at Frodo in question he shrugged.

“Standard mode of dress for Aunt Petunia. I have known her to wear two or three dresses at once.”

They looked up as Daisy Gamgee appeared in the doorway to the bedrooms. She was wearing a rather fetching blue dress, it’s hem as yet unfinished. “Hello, Master Frodo.” She swished her full skirts. “What do you think?”

He cleared his throat, for, although Daisy Gamgee was now courting Bartimus Brockbank, she still made him feel uncomfortable. “Is that your new dress? It’s very pretty.”

“Tis the latest fashion, May says.” She deliberately tweaked the bright yellow bow at the juncture of her breasts, knowing the action would draw his eye.

Her mother had seen all this before however. “Are yer feet clean, my girl?” She bent to examine the soles that Daisy offered up, one by one, for inspection. “Up ye get then.”

Daisy stepped from bench to table-top in a flurry of petticoats that afforded Frodo an eye-level view of her shapely knees. He bent his gaze at once to the book that Sam was just opening.

Bell set her pin cushion on the table with an apologetic tilt of her head to their neighbour. “Right, lass. Where do ye want this hem turnin’? And before ye say anythin’, I’ll not turn it above the knee.”

Daisy grinned. “Tis the fashion to show an inch of petticoat, Ma. I bet all the lasses in Michel Delvin' are doing it, aren’t they Master Frodo?”

Two sets of female eyes fell upon Frodo and he wished the floor would open up and swallow him. “Erm . . . I’m afraid I didn’t notice. We didn’t have far to walk from inn to tailors,” he lied. In truth, he remembered seeing many a pretty inch of flounced petticoat, but he wasn’t about to put himself on the wrong side of Bell Gamgee.

Bell sniffed and Daisy scowled at him, so Frodo dropped his head to the book once more, noting with some relief that Sam seemed to be having difficulty with a word.   
“Break it into bits, Sam.” He covered part of the word with his finger and Sam tried.”

“Ad . . . vent . . . oo . . . ree.”

“Nearly. Remember what I told you about the letter U changing its sound when there is only one letter between it and a following E, and that an E at the end of a word is usually silent?”

Sam studied for a moment then his eyes lit up in delight as he called out, “Adventure! It’s adventure. Like Mister Bilbo had.”

Frodo cringed when he heard Bell sniff again. Fortunately, she was concentrating too firmly upon providing Daisy’s new dress with a level hem, to express her strong opinion on adventuring in more detail.

“How did yer visit to the tailor go, Master Frodo?” Bell asked as she folded up and pinned the fabric. 

Frodo noted that she left exposed the requested inch of lace petticoat but that the over-all length was still below the knee. “It went well, I think. I must go back for the first fitting of the suits in two weeks. My shirts should be finished by then too.”

“And very nice they’ll look, I’ve no doubt. I expect you’ll be glad to have a shirt cuff that comes down to yer wrist again,” Bell noted with a smile. “I’ve started work on my Ham’s new shirt with the material you and Mr Bilbo brought back. Tis lovely stuff.”

Frodo eyed his current shirt sleeves, which he had been forced to roll up because the cuffs were frayed and finished half way up his forearm anyway. “It will be nice, I confess.”

“Stand still, lass. If ye keep swingin’ yer skirt like that I’ll not vouch for the line of this hem. Did ye go to the privy afore ye put the dress on ‘cause yer jiggin’ about as if yer bustin’ to go.”

Daisy huffed. “Ma! I just like the way it moves is all. I aint never had a skirt with so much cloth in it.”

“Well, ye can thank yer sister, May, for that. That coin yer Da and me gave you, came from her. It paid for the extra yard and she says yer to look on it as her birthday present to ye.” She tapped Daisy’s foot when the lass began to fidget again. “So, don’t ye go spoilin’ the present by swishin’ and swashin’ while I’m tryin’ to turn the hem.”

Sam looked up. “Master Frodo, how do you spell ‘swashin’?’”

Bell tutted. “Never you mind, Samwise Gamgee. Get on with yer book learnin’. Ye’ve got enough words in that book without havin’ to learn another.” Frodo found himself on the receiving end of one of Bell Gamgee’s glares. “And I hope young Master Frodo here ain’t puttin’ any ideas in yer head about adventurin’ . . . with or without a funny U and a quiet E . . . whatever they are.”

Frodo chuckled. “I promise I’m not, Mistress Gamgee.”

Sam ducked his head to read the next line. Adventuring sounded fun to him, especially if it involved meeting elves.

-0-

It was nearly two months later and after two more visits to Michel Delving that Frodo finally got his new suits. Hearing the cart stop at the bottom of the lane, Bell Gamgee looked up from her weeding in time to see Bilbo and Frodo Baggins step down, juggling several parcels in their arms. Bell called back through the open kitchen door. “Sam! Go and help Mister Baggins with his packages.”

Sam ran out at once, popping the last of a slice of toast into his mouth as he ran, full tilt, down the lane. Bilbo gratefully relinquished some of his parcels to the youngster and was all smiles as he and Frodo reached Number Three’s garden gate.

Bell straightened, wiping her hands upon her apron as she appraised Frodo. 

Rather proud of his new outfit, Frodo held out his arms to the side and performed a slow turn. When he was facing front again he asked, with a grin, “What do you think?”

Bell leaned in to examine the top stitching on a lapel then stepped back with a smile. “Tis beautiful stitchin’ and a neat fit.” Her smile widened, “Forgive me for sayin’ so, but ye were beginnin’ to look like ye’d just come up from Harbottle. Now ye look like a proper Gentlehobbit.”

Bilbo grinned proudly at his nephew. “Bres always does excellent work. What do you think of the shirt? It’s the latest style.”

Frodo obliged by popping the buttons on his fine velvet waistcoat to reveal that the shirt buttons only came half way down the front, from neck to mid chest, before they met the bottom of an inset panel. The shirt was obviously intended to be slipped on over the head.

Once more, Bell leaned closer. “The latest, ye say? I remember my great grandda wearing a shirt ye had to pull over yer head like that.” She sniffed. “These new-fangled fashions are only old ones come round again as far as I can see.”

Frodo tried not to let his disappointment show as he rebuttoned his waistcoat, but Bilbo stepped in to his defence. “After all, there are only so many things one can do to change a garment.” He gave Frodo a broad wink before continuing, “And I seem to remember a young Bell Goodchild arguing with her mother over the new-fangled style of the lacings on her wedding dress.”

Bell grinned. “I wanted cross lacin’ and Ma wanted herringbone. I’d forgot all about that.” She gave Frodo another appraisal. “Ye’ll do, lad. And that shirt do sit well with the weskit. The lasses will be fightin’ to be seen with ye at this year’s Harvest Reel.”

Frodo’s grin returned. “Thank you, Mistress Gamgee. At least I’ll be in no danger of splitting my breeches this year.”

The tale of Hamfast Gamee bursting his breeches at the Thrimidge celebration had spread far and wide in the Shire, growing in the telling. Ham took the laughter in good part but Bell had jumped in to defend her sewing skills, when someone told a version that suggested that the garment had completely disintegrated, leaving Ham stark naked in the middle of the crowded party field.

Now she rolled twinkling eyes. “Aye. One person, showin’ off his smalls to the world, is enough for the folk of Hobbiton.”


	29. Coming Home

Bell Gamgee leaned in to wipe steam from her kitchen window and frown at the flat opaque grey sky, framed in the naked branches of the plum tree. “I hope as how that snow folks are talkin' of don't get here afore Yule.”

She turned back to the range to lift the lid on a large pan, releasing the rich aroma of Yule Pudding. Daisy paused in her potato peeling to inhale appreciatively as her mother added more water. “When I've finished these I'll take Sam up the hill with me to light the fires. Did Mr Bilbo say what time he was expecting to get home?”

Bell joined her at the table, taking up a small knife to begin scraping carrots. “I'm blessed if I know. He was ever a one for goin' his own way. Him and Master Frodo was supposed to be comin' back from Buckland with Tom Carter, but Tom called while you was feedin' the pigs to say Mr Bilbo had changed his mind and him and Master Frodo was walkin' back. Somethin' about stretchin' their legs.”

Daisy's sniff sounded so like her mother's that Bell glanced up in surprise. “I don't see why rich folk think it's such fun to walk. If I could afford the fare I'd take a cart everywhere.”

If Bell Gamgee agreed with her daughter she did not do so aloud. She considered it important to keep her tweenage daughter's feet very firmly on the ground. “There's nothin' wrong with walkin'. Tis good for a body. But mayhap tis not so good an idea at this time of year.” She glanced at the window again, it's glass already steamed up again, as the temperature outside continued to drop. “Leave the last of those taters, lass. I'll finish 'em. Ye call Sam and get yerself up to Bag End to light them fires. Mister Baggins and Master Frodo will be froze through when they get home at this rate.”

Daisy set aside her work and turned to wash her hands at the sink before calling through to the bedrooms for her younger brother. 

Sam appeared at once, cloak over his arm and his brow lined with worry. “If the snow comes will there be a Yule Fire?” 

His mother smiled fondly as she bent to draw the cloak about his narrow shoulders and fasten the ties beneath his chin. “T'will take more than a few flakes of snow to do that, lad. I saw Arty Sedgeburry, Bartimus and one or two others spreading an old oil cloth over it earlier and Arty's kept some dry kindlin', just in case. Don't you worry.” She turned back to her daughter, who was fastening her own cloak. “That reminds me. Mister Bilbo said their Yule Log was in his shed. Don't forget to bring it in and set it by his hearth for later.”

“I won't forget, Ma.” With those words Daisy shepherded her young brother out of the door and up the lane to Bag End.

-0-

Frodo Baggins was trying to decide whether it was more important to use his hands to hug his cloak closed against the freezing wind that had picked up over the past hour, or whether it would be better to slip them into his pockets. He finally settled for holding his cloak. The warmth of their hefty breakfast at the Beak and Whistle had long since worn off and, not for the first time, he was regretting going along with his uncle's decision to walk back to Hobbiton. 

This was their second day on the road and they had passed very few other idiots upon it. Most were sensibly shut up in their homes by a roaring fire. Frodo blinked as a snowflake landed on the tip of his nose. It was followed swiftly by another on his foothair and then several more. He pushed back his hood and looked up at a sky now pregnant with snow and groaned. “This goes from bad to worse.”

“Oh, buck up, lad. It never snows for long in the Shire. You know that. And it probably won't even settle.” Bilbo's broad grin and overly bright demeanour did not fool his nephew one iota. Adventurer or not, Bilbo Baggins was as fond of his hearth and feather bed as the next hobbit. Frodo only pulled up his hood again and trudged on in his wake.

Within half an hour the light dry flurries had turned to fat wet clumps and soon it was deep enough to cover their toes. Frodo and Bilbo walked side by side now, heads down and leaning into the wind. It was fortunate that the Great East Road was a kings highway and kept in good repair. High hawthorn hedges ensured that they could not go astray but they kept to the centre, for there were ditches to either side, which were now filling with drifts. The only sounds were that of their own breathing and the moan of wind through the hawthorn's bare branches.

Frodo tried to still the chattering of his teeth for long enough to ask, “How much farther is it to the Bywater turn off?” 

Bilbo paused to peer about them. “We passed the Three Farthing Stone about an hour ago so it shouldn't be far now. Don't worry. We'll not miss it.” He took Frodo's elbow and the two leaned closer to share what warmth they had.

It was only moments later that Bilbo pointed to their right, where a gap in the hawthorn indicated their turning. Frodo sighed with relief for the snow was swirling so thickly that he harboured a secret worry that they really had missed it.

Now, the Great East Road was well maintained, for it was used by more than just the folk of the Shire. Dwarves used it as a trade route and even the odd lone big person had been seen upon occasion, although the Bounders stopped most at the Brandywine crossings or the White Downs. Still, there was a tradition that it should be kept in good repair, in case the King returned to inspect it. Most folk in the Shire had neither seen nor wanted to see a king, but they were a people who respected tradition. 

The lesser roads did not earn the same attention, however, and it had been a particularly wet autumn, necessitating this years' Harvest Reel being held in Tom Cotton's spare barn. The turning to Bywater was quite sharp and cart wheels had gouged deep ruts in the soft surface of the road. These had filled with muddy water, which had frozen overnight and were now hidden beneath a smooth blanket of white. Bilbo wished they had their walking staves, which could have been used to test the ground before them, but their decision to walk home had been made after their arrival in Buckland. Bilbo sighed quietly as he visualised their staves, standing neatly in the umbrella stand of Bag End's hallway. Well, there was nothing for it. Wishing did not result in having, so he stepped gingerly into the road junction.

Perhaps if he had been less tentative, he would have put his foot down more firmly and gone through the surface film of ice on one of the deeper puddles. But age brought some caution and his foot landed lightly and then simply slid away beneath him. Bilbo tried to keep his other foot in place but he was in danger of splitting more than his breeches if he did not move it. Frodo's grab was too late and Bilbo landed hard in the snow, with a loud yelp.

“Bilbo! Are you alright?” Frodo threw himself on his knees at his uncle's side, running hands up and down his torso to seek out any damage.

Bilbo batted his hands away. “Leave me be! Let me get my breath.”

Establishing that Bilbo was not so badly hurt that he had lost his usual irascible nature, Frodo stilled. “You seem to have breath enough,” he commented with a wry grin as he held out a hand. Bilbo humphed as he accepted and sat up, but when Frodo would have pulled him to his feet Bilbo winced, waiving him off as he looked up apologetically. “I think I may have twisted my ankle.”

Frodo hunkered down again. “Which one?”

“Right.”

Frodo checked that his uncle's foot was pointing in the usual direction before carefully lifting his lower leg. “Can you wiggle your toes?” Bilbo obliged. “Probably not broken then. Let me know when this hurts.” The Terror of Brandy Hall had endured enough examinations like this to know the drill and he gently began moving the foot this way and that. Bilbo gasped when Frodo manipulated it inward. Setting it down, Frodo surveyed their surroundings.

Snow was falling so heavily now that there were few surroundings to be surveyed. It was Bilbo who spoke first. “If you can find me a walking stick I can probably hobble along.” When Frodo only looked sceptical he continued, “Well, we can't stay here, lad. Nobody is going to be out and about in this unless they have to be and I don't think you could carry me.”

Frodo recovered his sense of humour. “Certainly not after the breakfast you put away this morning.” He stood, crossing to the hedgerow, but rather wary of the ditch. “Hawthorn isn't the best of trees for strong straight limbs,” he commented. As he suspected, there were no likely candidates and Frodo resigned himself to the roll of human walking stick.

Taking a moment to tear a strip off the bottom of his cloak he hunkered down at Bilbo's side and began to strap up the offending ankle. “You'll just have to lean on me, Uncle. Once we get closer to Bywater we may find some help.” Five minutes later Bilbo was upright, with his arm about Frodo's shoulders.

For half an hour they hobbled along, Bilbo's silence telling Frodo more than he cared to know about the level of pain he was in. Gradually, they grew aware of the soft footfalls of a pony and the rumble of wheels. They turned in time to see Ted Sandyman steering his cart slowly down the lane. When the walkers did not step aside he was obliged to draw to a stop.

There was little to be seen of Ted's face above the muffler he had wound about his neck and mouth, but his sneering tone told them all they needed to know of the expression beneath. “Think you own the road, do you, Baggins? Some of us need to be getting home.”

“Hello Master Sandyman. We were heading home ourselves but Bilbo has twisted his ankle. I don't suppose you could give us a ride in the back of your cart?” Frodo tried his most ingratiating tone. 

'Ingratiating' did not work on Ted, however. “My pony's having enough trouble just pulling the cart through this lot. I've no mind to add the weight of two fat hobbits.”

Bilbo's silence was worrying Frodo so he tried again. “You've no sacks on the back so surely it won't be too much for him. If you could take us as far as the mill, I'm sure we could manage from there.”

Bilbo had lived around Ted Sandiman for long enough to know that pleading or even reasoning would be of little use and went straight for the only thing that would be likely to change Ted's mind. “We would pay you for your trouble, of course.”

Ted, who had been in the process of telling his pony to walk on, pulled on the reins and the poor beast snorted to a sudden stop. “How much?”

Bilbo fished in his jacket pocket, producing three silver pennies and some copper. Frodo managed to add two pennies to that. Tom Carter had been intending to charge them three pennies to bring both of them all the way from Buckland to their own front door, but Ted Sandiman was not Tom Carter. Bilbo held out his hand and Ted's eyes widened at the sight of the five silver pennies. He reached down to grab them before Bilbo had time to change his mind. “Hop in the back and be quick about it. I aint got all day. The Missus wants me home to lay the fire for Yule and all this snow has made me late.”

“Thank you.” Frodo helped his uncle into the cart and they settled side by side for warmth as Ted snapped the reins.

The only saving grace of the next two hours was that Bilbo did not have to walk. Ted ignored all attempts to socialise and Bilbo was in too much pain to care so Frodo was left to huddle close to his uncle and stare at the snow which was, thankfully, slowing as they neared Bywater. When they reached the mill Frodo tried to persuade Ted to take them on to Hobbiton, with the promise of more money, but he would have none of it.

“My missus will be wantin' me to help with the decoratin'. I aint goin' to keep her waitin' because two idiots couldn't take care of themselves. Off you get so I can get Tobin here into the stable.”

So Frodo helped his uncle down, taking an arm about his shoulders and helping Bilbo to hobble off up the lane. In truth, he was not altogether sure that Bilbo could go much further but he hoped they could at least make it to the Ivy Bush, where they may be able to hire a cart and driver to take them the rest of the way.

They had travelled only a few yards however, when Bilbo groaned. “P . . p . . . please, Frodo. I have to s . . stop. Just l . . let me have a few minutes.”

Spying a fallen tree at the roadside, Frodo brushed off the snow as best he could and lowered Bilbo to sit upon it. He hunkered down to see his uncle's face within the depths of his hood and was concerned to see it pale and pinched. “Will you be alright if I leave you here, Bilbo? I can run on ahead to the Green Dragon and come back with help.”

To his credit, Bilbo tried to paste on a smile, although it more closely resembled a grimace. “You go on, lad. I'll do well enough here. The snow has almost stopped.”

Frodo ignored Bilbo's protests as he removed his own cloak and laid it as another layer over his uncle's shoulders. “I'll be warm enough if I run and my jacket is thick. You need the cloak more than I do.” He paused to pat Bilbo's shoulder and then trotted off into the white landscape.

-0-

Daisy helped her Da off with his cloak and muffler. “Is it very deep?” she asked.

“Aye, lass. I've not seen snow this deep for three year or more. But 'tis often the way when you have a hot summer, and this one was a scorcher.”

Bell leaned in to peck his cheek and thrust a cup of hot, strong tea into his hands. “Did ye see aught of the Baggins' on yer way up the lane?”

Hamfast blinked in surprise. “Are they not home yet? I thought Tom Carter said he expected 'em to get here by lunch time.”

Bell filled a basin with warm water and laid a towel by the sink as Ham rolled up his shirt sleeves. “The fires have been lit since first thing so 'tis warm enough. I've had Sam keepin' an eye out through the window but he's not seen 'em go past. Truth told, I'm gettin' a bit worried.”

Ham splashed the soap from his face and hands and Bell held out a towel that had been warming above the range. “Aye. Tis a bit worritin, I'll grant you. Mayhap they decided to stay overnight at an inn when the snow came in.”

Bell rehung the towel to dry and turned to dish up some beef stew, while Daisy sliced bread and set it by her Da's plate. The rest of the family had eaten earlier but now they all sat down with cups of tea to join Ham as he ate his luncheon. Bell buttered a slice of bread, cutting it in half and sharing it between Sam and Marigold. Daisy frowned but said nothing, only recently having learned that being treated as an adult had it's down side.

“Mayhap, but Mister Bilbo was so sure he would be home to start the Yule flame.”

Sam washed down a swallow of bread with a big swig of milky tea. “Will there be no Yule if Mister Bilbo doesn't come home?” He eyed with dismay the draining board, where the chicken was dressed and waiting to be put in the oven tomorrow morning. Their kitchen was filled with the sharp, earthy smell of greenery hung about the hearth and the rich spices of the giant fruit pudding already steaming on the hob.

Bell reached aside to hug her son. “Don't you worrit about that, lad. If they're not back in time the Yule flame will start with us instead. Still, 'tis not like Mister Bilbo to leave us without word and this snow will make hard walkin'.” She frowned across at her husband. “You don't think they're in trouble, do ye?”

Daisy's eyes lit up. “Mayhap they've been attacked by wolves,” she offered almost gleefully. She was still of an age when wolves meant excitement, rather than potential death.

When Bell felt her son flinch she fixed her eldest daughter with a gaze that would have skewered an orc. “Don't be daft, lass. There've been no wolves this side of the Brandywine since before I were a lass.”

“What's a wolf?” Marigold asked.

“Just a big dog, love. They don't come in the Shire so don't you fret,” Ham assured his youngest, even as he frowned at Daisy.

“Sam, lad. Why don't ye take yer sister for a nap? Then ye can come back and help me with the ironin'.” Bell helped Marigold down from the table and accepted a kiss as Sam led his little sister back to the bedrooms. 

It took a lot to worry Bell Gamgee and her husband knew it. He also knew that both Baggins were not as sensible as most hobbits. When they were not wasting their time reading books they were traipsing all over the Shire for no particular reason that Hamfast could see. Visiting family upon occasion was one thing but walking to somewhere just to see what was there served no purpose that he could fathom.

“Would you like me to go down to Hobbiton to see if they're about?” he asked as he used a slice of bread to mop his plate. “If I don't see them there I'll try the Bywater road. The snow's probably only slowed 'em down but mayhap they'll appreciate the company the rest of the way and I can take a lantern. Tis the shortest day after all and with all this cloud it'll be dark earlier.”

Bell chewed her cheek for a moment, contemplating her husband out alone in this weather, and then Daisy spoke up. “I can go with you Da. If they've got into any bother an extra body wouldn't hurt and mayhap we can call for Barty on the way.”

Suspecting that the prospect of spending some time with Bartimus Brockbank was the main reason for her tweenage daughter's sudden altruism, Bell nonetheless kept the thought to herself. “Thank ye, lass. Go put on Halfred's old breeches and a warm jacket under yer cloak. Ye'd best fetch yer Da a dry muffler and mittens too.”

“Oh, Ma! I look horrible in breeches,” Daisy pouted.

Bell sighed. “Bartimus won't notice 'neath yer cloak and ye'll be thankin' me if the wind brings more snow. There's nothin' worse than tryin' to walk with yards of wet skirt flappin' around yer legs.”

“But Ma . . .”

“Don't 'but' yer Ma, Daisy Gamgee. Go change while I set the lantern.” Hamfast rarely chided his children so when he did they heeded him.

Only ten minutes later Daisy and her father were walking down the hill. Daisy paused at Brocklebank smial long enough to add Bartimus to the party and they continued down into Hobbiton. Hoping that the Baggins' had taken a room at the Ivy Bush they checked there first, before moving on to Bywater. They found no news of the Baggins' at the Green Dragon in Bywater and, their concern growing, were about to move on just a little further, when Frodo Baggins burst through the door. 

“Has anyone . . . got a . . . cart I can borrow?” he called between gasps. It was clear that he had run some distance and he began to cough as soon as the warm air of indoors hit his cold-seared lungs.

Hamfast pushed through the gathering crowd. “Master Frodo? What ever is the matter and where's Mister Bilbo?” 

The obvious relief that washed over Frodo upon seeing his neighbour's face brought a glow to Hamfast's heart. “Master Gamgee! It's so good to see you but what are you doing so far from home on the eve of Yule?”

Hamfast allowed himself a lopsided grin. “My missus was worritin' and she would have nothin' but that I should go look for you. But you haven't said where Mister Bilbo is.”

“Bilbo twisted his ankle. Ted Sandyman gave us a ride as far as his mill but Bilbo couldn't walk any farther. I've left him on the side of the road and run straight here.”

The landlord stepped forward. “I don't have no pony but you're welcome to borrow my hand cart. Bartimus there can bring it back on the morrow or my lad can fetch it.”

“I'll do that,” Bartimus replied. “And thank you.”

“Come with me, then. My missus will let you have spare blankets and some warming bricks to keep Mister Baggins warm.”

“Where's your cloak, Master Frodo?” Hamfast asked as he led Frodo to the hearth and someone thrust a mug of hot cider into the lad's hands. 

Frodo gulped gratefully before replying. “I gave it to Bilbo. He needed it more than I.”

Five minutes later the small party set off down the road. Bartimus pulled the cart and Daisy walked at his side. Frodo, wrapped in a blanket, led the way with Hamfast.

“I wish I could say I was surprised at Ted Sandyman leavin' you to fend for yourselves,” Hamfast muttered.

Frodo nodded. “Don't think too badly of him. I suppose it was our fault really. We should have known better than to walk any distance at this time of year, but it's been a while since we've had snow this deep. There he is!”

Bilbo was a sorry sight, hunched over on a log at the roadside. Even bundled in two cloaks his teeth were chattering and he could only manage to say, “T . . t . . thank y . . y . . you,” as Bartimus and Hamfast helped him into the handcart and swaddled him in half a dozen heavy blankets.

“Just you lie there, Mister Bilbo. Me and Bartimus will have you both home in no time.” Hamfast would not hear of Frodo helping and he and Bartimus took a handle each to pull the cart; no easy feat through three inches of snow.

By the time they reached Bagshot Row the afternoon was waning and Daisy was now walking ahead with the lantern. So it was that Sam, who was sitting by the window again, spotted them climbing the hill and Bell met them at the gate to Number Three.

“Mister Bilbo! What has happened?” she asked as she saw the blanket wrapped bundle in the handcart.

“He's alright, Bell lass. He's cold and he's turned his ankle, but he'll live.” Hamfast wrapped a meaty arm about his wife's girth as Frodo took his place at a handle of the cart.

“Daisy, you go inside and look to yer brother and sister. I'll go up the hill and see what I can do fer Mister Bilbo,” Bell instructed. Daisy paused only long enough to flash Bartimus a steamy glance before she headed indoors and Bell decided that she needed to have a word with Bartimus Brockbank some time soon. He was well used to dealing with his sister Ruby's shenanigans, but it would not hurt to remind him that Daisy was not yet of age.

-0-

“There, now.” Bell Gamgee dropped a rug over Bilbo's knees and Frodo handed over a mug of tea.

Accepting the tea gratefully, Bilbo smiled at his helpers. “You have all been so good to me that I am already feeling much better.” He was sitting in an arm chair before the fire, in the informal sitting room he and Frodo used for everyday. Bell had re-bandaged his injured foot, propped it upon a footstool and helped him into one of his thickest winter jumpers. The shivering had ceased some time ago and this second cup of tea was doing a very good job of warming him from the inside.

“'tweren't nothin', Mr Bilbo. Just you rest there and Me and Ham will start off the Yule flame this year. Nobody will think badly of ye,” Bell assured him as she raked ashes from the grate and added another log to the blaze. “Yer own Yule log is set ready in the parlour and I made an extra puddin' for ye and Master Frodo. It only needs a while in the oven tomorrow to heat through. The rest of yer Yule dinner is in the pantry and if Master Frodo has any trouble with it he can pop down to Number Three and Daisy will come up to give a hand.”

Frodo was quick to jump in, before Bilbo was gracious enough to accept. Although he and Daisy had reached some accommodation since she started courting Bartimus, Frodo was not about to test it. “It's alright. I'm sure I can manage the dinner by myself. Although I thank you for the offer, Mistress Gamgee.”

Bilbo hid a smile behind his mug and Bell managed to dampen her own before turning to the youngster. “Well, just you make sure that pride don't get in the way of a good dinner,” she chided as she wiped her hands on her apron.

Bilbo settled himself more comfortably. “And there's no need to break the Yule tradition. Frodo can light our log and carry the flame down to Number Three. I shall be quite happy to sit here by the fire but there's no reason for him not to attend the bonfire.”

A new voice asserted, “There's no reason you can't come yourself, Mister Baggins.” Bartimus and Nedis Brocklebank stood in the doorway and between them sat a sturdy kitchen chair, trimmed with ivy and ribbons. They laughed when they saw Bilbo's eyes widen. “It wouldn't be the same without Bilbo Baggins. Me and my brothers can carry you down the hill and bring you back. Mayhap you won't be able to join the dance ring but at least you can watch and wish everyone a happy Yule.”

“The fire's going ahead then?” Frodo asked in surprise.

Hamfast Gamgee chuckled. “'twill take more than a few inches of snow to stop that and we'll all be warm enough once it's lit and the dancin' starts.” He winked. “Warmer still when the cider jug is passed around. We covered the fire as soon as the snow started so the wood will be dry enough.”

Bell Gamgee pursed her lips as she assessed Bilbo. It always amazed her how fit he was for his age and how quickly he recovered from the few illnesses he suffered. 

Bilbo set down his cup and rubbed his hands with glee. “That sounds like a capital idea, Bartimus. If you and your brothers really don't mind I would love to attend.”

“Nothin' too it Mister Baggins. We'll have you down there in a jiffy and you just need to let us know when you're ready to come home.”

Frodo leaned down to hug his uncle. “I'll fetch your warmest cloak and some mittens.”

Bell Gamgee took Bilbo's empty mug to the kitchen, pausing to call over her shoulder, “Don't forget to fetch one for yerself lad. It's fair nitherin' out there now the sun's gone down. And ye'd best get back quick if yer goin' to set yer log in time to light the Yule flame too.”

“Bell and Ham, you'd best get back to your own smial to make ready. If Bartimus and Nedes will oblige I can hobble into the parlour to help Frodo deal with the log. The kindling bag is on the mantle.”

Hamfast moved to shepherd his wife to the door but she held back. “Daisy says she dressed the log for ye but are ye sure ye can manage?”

Bilbo waived them off. “Away with you both. I am certain that Daisy would cope at Number Three if she had to, but the Yule flame should be accepted by the head of the family.” When Bell would have hesitated again Hamfast tucked her arm in his. “Come on, lass. They'll manage.”

So it was that Bartimus and Nedes Brockbank joined the Baggin's family for the lighting of their ivy dressed Yule log. A much muffled-up Bilbo was carried down the hill to pass the candle flame to a grinning Hamfast Gamgee at the gate to Number Three Bagshot Row, along with the traditional blessing . . .

“May you have hearth to comfort, fire to cook and candle to guide you home.”

As Hamfast had promised, the bonfire in Hobbiton's Party Field lit easily from the candle that young Frodo Baggins thrust deep into its' heart and soon everyone, even those too old or infirm to join the ring of dancers, were joining the age old chant of . . . 

“Tis the time of endings.  
Tis the time of beginnings.  
Health, Hope and Happiness.  
Light, Love and Laughter.  
Prosperity and Peace to all!”


	30. The Birds and the Bees

Bell started at the sound of a knock on her kitchen door, realising that she had almost nodded off in her chair whilst nursing a cup of tea. She recognised the knock so her surprise had faded by the time she opened the door, to look up at a bright faced Bartimus Brockbank. “Hello, lad. What can I do for ye? As if I couldn't guess.”

Bartimus' ready smile lit the room. “Hello Mistress Gamgee. I was wonderin' if Daisy was about. Tis a fine day and I was hopin' you'd let her walk out with me.”

Bell returned his smile but then fell into an apology. “I'm sorry, lad. She's gone down to Overhill to look after my sister and her family for a few days. Rosemary has a twisted her ankle so Daisy has gone to help with the faunts and taken Mari to visit her cousins.” She stepped back. “But come in for a spot of tea if ye will.”

Bartimus shuffled his feet. “I'll not bother you, Mistress. Da's only let me go for a couple of hours so if Daisy aint here I'll head back down the hill.”

“I'd rather ye had a cup of tea, lad.” Bell's pointed tone let Bartimus know that refusal was not an option, so he submitted somewhat reluctantly.

“Thank you, Mistress Gamgee. Mayhap it would be good to have somethin' to drink afore goin' back to work.”

There was a nod of approval and Bell waived him to her husband's chair by the range.

Summer was on the way but today the weather had snapped cold so a fire was welcome. Bartimus settled somewhat uncomfortably in the chair of the master of the smial, and accepted a mug of thick brown tea. His wariness increased as Bell took her chair opposite, to study him over the rim of her mug for several long and silent moments.

Bartimus tried avoid her assessing gaze, his own roaming the large kitchen in an attempt to find a safe topic of conversation whilst Bell decided to speak. He cleared his throat. “I see you've finished the spring cleanin'. Ruby is still tacklin' ours. I've left her yellin' at Nedes 'cause he aint beatin' the rug hard enough for her likin'.”

Bell smiled. “Tis a messy job, beatin' carpets. Daisy hates it.” Her smile widened. “That's why I always make her do it. I don't mind the youngsters givin' a hand but when Daisy's got a smial of her own she won't be able to pass on the job to her younger brother.” 

“Does Daisy know that's why she always gets the job?” Bartimus asked, seeing Bell in a new light when she confessed her strategy.

His question raised a laugh from Bell. “Of course she don't. I'll leave her to work it out and I'll thank ye not to tell her. There's some things folk need to learn the hard way.” When she saw Bartimus squirm a little she continued. “Ye've been walkin' out with Daisy for a while now and I've not seen ye with any other lasses of late. Is things gettin' serious between ye?” 

Now Bartimus' eyes widened, like a deer caught suddenly in the lamplight of a suddenly opened door. “Er . . . well, I do like Daisy a lot. She says what she means and I appreciate that in a lass. But we've both got a few years afore we come of age, so I didn't think it right to speak up.” He took a big gulp of his tea, wincing at the heat.

“Aye. And I'd like it if ye'd not wed afore that.” Now her gaze narrowed and Bell added, pointedly, “But some folk are obliged to wed afore they're of age, and I hope ye take my meanin'.”

Bartimus' sudden pallor told Bell that he took her meaning very well and he had to clear his throat again before replying. “I do, Mistress Gamgee. I've been runnin' around after our Ruby for long enough to know what some tweens get up to at Harvest Reel, and you've no need to fret on my intentions with your Daisy.”

Bell could not resist the urge to tease . . . just a little. “Is my Daisy not comely enough for ye, then?” 

Bartimus' face grew even whiter and he stumbled over his words in his rush to reply. “Nay, Mistress . . . I mean . . . Yes Mistress . . . I mean . . .” He finally paused to draw breath and Bell had to set down her cup as she held back her laughter. Bartimus finally gathered his wits. “Your Daisy is one of the bonniest lasses in Hobbiton. I'd say the Shire but I've not been any further than Frogmorton. I'll not dishonour her.”

“To be honest, tis not your intentions I worrit over. Daisy's got a wayward streak in her.” Bell allowed herself a small smile. “Mayhap she gets that from me. But I'm afraid she aint got the sense to go with it yet.”

When Bartimus looked to be about to defend the new love of his life again, Bell waived him down. “Now, I don't mean no offence to my daughter in that. She's got a bit of growin' up to do yet and common sense comes with time. So I'm goin' to rely on ye to be the grown-up in this. Yer both still young and, who knows, with time ye may find that yer not suited after all. T'would be a shame if ye discovered that, but had to wed anyways, because of a few minutes weakness. Kissin' and cannudlin' is one thing, but we don't want no unexpected bairns,” she announced firmly.

Bartimus straightened. “I promise you that I'll treat your Daisy like she was my own sister.”

There was a twinkle in Bell's eyes as she replied, “Aye, well, mayhap not too much like yer sister, lad. There'd be no fun for either of ye in that.”

-0-

“Are you alright, love?” Ham's voice seemed to come from some great distance and Bell rolled over to bury deeper into the blankets.

“Bell? Tis mornin.”

Bell opened one wary eye and slammed it shut again when it was met with a startlingly bright light. It took a moment to realise that it was only sunlight streaming through their bedroom window. “Time is it?” she managed to murmur around a yawn.

“Tis seven o'clock. I gave Sam some toast and tea for first breakfast, 'cause you were hard and fast asleep. If you're still feelin' tired I can get second breakfast too, but I thought you would want wakin' afore we go,” her husband offered.

Bell threw back the covers determinedly. “No. Ye'll be late, and high and mighty Mistress Sackville-Baggins won't take kindly to that.” She rolled out of bed, rummaging for her clothes and deciding that a wash could wait. 

“If your sure, lass. I'll put some water on to boil for tea and cut the rinds off the bacon.”

Bell gave him a peck on the cheek. “You should have woke me sooner. With Daisy not here I need to rake the fire.” She stepped into skirt and blouse, deciding to abandon petticoat and bodice until after breakfast.

“Don't fret. I did that and Sam's just gone out with the ashes.” 

“I hope you let them cool.”

Hamfast snorted as he left their bedroom. “Don't be daft. Of course I did.”

Bell followed him only a minute later, moving straight to the kitchen range to begin frying bacon and eggs and fighting off a nagging headache that seemed to be causing her some mild nausea.

Sam played his part, setting the table and buttering some bread, while Hamfast made tea. Bell had to swallow back bile as Ham poured boiling water onto tea leaves and when he offered her a mug she set it high on the mantle above her.

Half an hour later she watched, with some relief, as Ham and Sam set off down the lane. Bell washed the pots, barely hanging on to what little she had eaten, when she came to empty the teapot. It was with some relief that she returned to bed, deciding that if she could just lie down for another hour her headache and nausea would subside.

-0-

“Bell! Yoohoo. Are you home?” Despite her age, Clover Mugwort always managed to put a serious amount of volume into her voice. Doctor Brockleby put it down to Clover perhaps losing her hearing, but those who had known the elderly lady for a while, knew she had always spoken at some volume. Ted Sandiman had once stated that Clover had a voice that could earn her good money, if she ever decided to move to the coast, where she could loan herself out as a fog horn. Bell would never condone such a cruel statement under normal circumstances, but today was not normal, and she winced as Clover's calls assaulted her already pounding head.

Nonetheless, Bell bit her tongue and called out pleasantly, “I'm in here, Clover.” She levered herself up from the bed but when her stomach gave a slow roll she grabbed swiftly at the chamber pot, clutching it in her lap as she fought for dominance over her breakfast.

“Bell! Whatever is the matter? Shall I send Arty to fetch Hamfast?” Clover's face mirrored the concern in her voice, for finding the usually energetic Bell Gamgee grey faced and abed, in the middle of the morning, was a very unusual occurrence. 

Bell perched on the edge of the mattress, sending a watery smile to the birdlike Clover. “Tis alright. Just a bit of sickness is all. Mayhap somethin' I ate.” 

“You're too proud to allow spoiled food near your table, but mayhap you've got a cold commin'. I've not heard of anythin' goin' about, but I suppose there's always got to be a first person.” Bell suffered Clover to lay a hand on her brow. “There's no fever and, in truth, you feel a bit chilled. What you need is a nice hot sweet cup of tea.”

Mere mention of the beverage and Bell began retching, dropping her head over the chamber pot.

Clover frowned. “Not tea, then. A sip of cold water.” When she returned a moment later Bell had regained control of her rebellious stomach.

“Thank ye, Clover.” She swilled her mouth with the first sip, spitting it into the pot before draping it with a towel. Then she took a larger swallow, sighing with relief. “That's better. Tea tastes proper awful of late.”

Clover settled next to her, rubbing her back gently. “Does Ham know?”

“That I'm feelin' sick? No. I thought if I could just lie down for an hour it would pass.” She glanced aside in surprise when Clover chuckled.

“How far along do you think you are?” Clover congratulated herself on having the skill to surprise Bell Gamgee.

Still Bell did not get the drift of Clover's comments. “Along?”

“Bell Gamgee . . . I've watched you carry all your bairns. The first thing you always complain of is not bein' able to stomach tea.”

Bell's hand moved from chamber pot to waist and she looked down in growing alarm. “But I'm too old.”

Clover frowned. “Do you still have your courses?”

“They're not regular, but yes.” Bell swallowed as memory of past pregnancies drifted back . . . nausea at even the smell of tea, tiredness, headaches. Then she shook her head. “Tis not possible.”

A jab in her ribs from Clover's sharp elbow threatened the return of nausea. “Don't you try to fog me, lass. I've seen how Ham looks at you. You can't tell me you two don't still have a bit of slap and tickle now and then.”

Now Bell's surprise turned to affront. “Clover Mugwort! I aint tellin' ye what goes on behind closed doors and I'll thank ye not to go guessin'.”

Clover only cackled. “I was married once. Twas a long while ago but there's nothin' wrong with my memory . . . yet.”

Bell had to grin. “Well, we did go for a long walk a few weeks back . . . alone.”

Clover's cackle rose in volume. “I knew it. You are carryin', Bell Gamgee.”

Still Bell found it difficult to believe. “It don't feel like it did with the others.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't know. When I was expectin' the others I just seemed to know, right from the off. This just don't feel the same.”

Clover picked up on Bell's disquiet. “Why don't you have a word with Aster Tunnelly? She'll know, right off. She's never wrong about bairns.”

“Mayhap I will.”

-0-

Hobbiton had very few cottages, being one of the older settlements of the Shire, but Aster Tunnelly lived in a tiny thatched cottage on the edge of the village. Her home was surrounded by an extensive herb garden and, hobbits being a fecund folk, there was generally a steady stream of ladies treading the midwife's garden path.

She washed her hands as Bell Gamgee shimmied into her drawers. “No doubt about it, lass. Yer carryin',” she announced baldly.

Bell thought she had become used to the idea but having Hobbiton's resident midwife confirm it seemed to drop the world on her shoulders. Aster poured a mug of chamomile tea and shepherded Bell to a chair by the kitchen hearth. 

“Yer a bit past yer prime to be carryin' so ye'll have to take care.” When Bell just stared into the fire Aster continued. “Ye've alus been a busy one but ye need to tell Ham to look after ye.” Still Bell said nothing and Aster reached out to tap her smartly on the knee. When Bell looked up in surprise Aster tried again. “I know tis a shock at yer age but ye've had bairns afore.”

Bell frowned. “This one feels different.”

“Aye. When yer older they sits different. Don't know why but there 'tis. And they don't grab on so tight, so no heavy liftin' for ye. Yer Daisy does better when she's got other stuff to think on than lads, so get her to help ye. Watch her all ye want but let her do the hard work. It'll get her used to lookin' after a home, somethin' I've no doubt Bartimus Brockbank will be pleased about in time. Has Ham guessed?”

Bell drifted off into reverie again. “I aint told no-one yet.”

Aster humphed. “Drink yer tea. 'tis good for ye and not so hard on yer stomach as that brown sludge ye usually make.”

The gentle dig had the desired affect and Bell straightened indignantly. “My family never had cause to complain about my tea. Ma used to say good strong tea puts hair on yer chest.”

There was a chuckle before Aster commented, “I'm sure Daisy's pleased to hear that. Ye need to tell her. She's a bit wild of a time but she can keep her mouth shut when she's a mind to. And ye need to tell Ham at the least.”

Bell discovered that the chamomile tea did, indeed, sit more gently on her sensitive stomach. “We'd both assumed, with my courses slowin', that there wouldn't be any more bairns. We'd have been a mite more careful if we'd known.”

Aster hooted with laughter. “Don't matter how careful ye are, lass. Nature don't pay no heed to 'assumed'. I've seen it many a time. 'Tis like she wants one last fling afore winter sets in.”

“I wish ye'd told me that after Marigold,” Bell muttered a little crossly.

Aster only tutted. “If ye'd bothered to ask I'd have told ye, but ye were alus one to keep yer own council, Bell Gamgee. Still, that's water 'neath the bridge. Now ye need to look after yerself if yer to look after that bairn.”

“Will I carry to term, do ye think? I lost our first and it just about broke Ham.”

“I don't know, lass. Nobody can know and Nature sometimes ends things 'cause they aint goin' well for the bairn. 'tis hard on all if that happens, I'll not deny, but it's for the best. Ye just do all ye can to protect ye both and come see me if yer not sure of anythin'.”

Bell managed a weak smile. “I'll tell Ham tonight.”

“Good lass. Now, do ye want to know if the bairn's a lad or a lass? I've my dowser here.” Aster reached up to the mantle to collect a fine crystal hung on a long cotton thread.

Now Bell laughed. “Get on with ye! When I was carryin' Mari that thing swung too and fro like a clock pendulum and ye told me 'twoud be a lad. I'll let Nature keep her secrets this time.” 

In her heart Bell acknowledged that the real reason was that she did not yet wish to risk investing too much love in this little life, and knowing the gender would make the bairn more real than she could cope with.


	31. Goodnight

GOODNIGHT

Ham drew on his pipe and Bell paused in her knitting to watch the way the glow lit his features. They had grown craggy with the years but within them she still saw the fresh-faced lad she had courted. Like her, he had widened around the middle, his hair showed greyer of late and he sometimes complained of aching joints in winter.

He noticed her gaze and smiled. “Now what's goin' through your mind, lass?”  
Bell pushed her needle points through a ball of wool and set aside Ham's half-finished weskit. “What makes ye think there were ought goin' through it, 'cept when to switch needles?”

Hamfast chuckled. “I know that look, that's why. You've got summat lurkin behind your teeth. Spit it out.”

Bell's face grew serious and Ham leaned forward across the hearth, elbows on his knees and pipe forgotten. Bell drew in a deep breath. “Do ye remember what we was talking about the other eve?”

“Bell, love. We've sat here every eve since the day we was married. Not that we sat for long on that first night.” He winked. “You'll have to be a mite clearer, 'cause from that look in your eye I'm thinkin' tis not Arty Sedgeburry's cow you're referin' to.”  
Bell glanced toward the doorway to the bedrooms and Ham frowned. “They're all asleep. You saw me look in on 'em not half an hour since,” he pronounced in exasperation. “Come on, lass. It's the job soonest started that's soonest finished. Just say whatever's eatin' at you.”

Bell drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders and touched a hand to her waist. “I'm expectin'” she announced baldly, her eyes locking onto Hamfast's earthen gaze as a drowning man holds fast to a log. 

Ham's jaw dropped open, then his eyes began to twinkle and his lips curved into a smile. “But that's fine news.” Then he noticed that Bell was not looking so pleased. “What's the matter, lass?”

His wife's shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “I don't know. Mayhap tis just that I didn't think we'd have another after Marigold. And there's the feedin' of another bairn to think on.”

Setting down his pipe, Ham crossed the hearth to perch upon the edge of the kitchen table, taking her work lined hands in his. “I know you had a hard time carryin' Mari and a harder one birthin' her, but you made it through.” He squeezed her hands. “I didn't think we'd have another either, else I'd have been more careful.”

A little of her usual resilience came through and Bell snorted. “It takes two to dance a jig, Hamfast Gamgee.”

Ham grinned. “There's my Bell.” Now he looked down into her hazel eyes. “This bairn may not have been expected but we'll cope, lass. You know I'll do what I can to help you durin' the carryin' and Daisy's of an age to get stuck in with the housework so you can rest. Then, when he or she arrives we'll have a grand party.”

Bell studied him a few moments before offering a tight smile. “Aye. Yer right. There's nought we can do now 'cept get on with it.” She rubbed her belly as she searched her husband's face then took another deep breath and nodded. “But lets keep it 'tween us a bit longer. There's no point getting the youngsters all excited yet.”

Ham frowned but leaned in to hug his wife. “Alright, lass. If that's what you want, twill be our secret for a bit longer.”

-0-

Bell handed down the wrapped fish to Sam, who placed it carefully in the basket carried over his arm. Ham decided he would not need his son's help at the Sackville-Baggins this week. Bell felt a little guilty, knowing that the lad looked forward to playing with Marigold, but there was much to do about the smial. So far she had drafted him in to help Daisy make the beds each morning, then there were carrots and onions to pull, laundry to be brought in, floors swept and pots to be washed. Daisy knew of her condition and, for once, had stepped up to the mark but Bell did not wish to leave all the work to her. 

This morning Bell had not been feeling particularly well. If she was honest she had not felt well for several days, although she could not put a finger on what precisely was wrong and put it down to the presage of morning sickness. Determined to ignore it she had giving Sam an impromptu cooking lesson, before taking him down the hill to market in Hobbiton. There she rewarded his efforts with a quarter of aniseed balls from the sweetie stall.

A sudden swell of nausea, accompanied by a flush of heat had Bell deciding it was time to turn for home. She eyed the steep hill then took a deep breath and pasted on a smile. “Well, that's everythin' on my list. Let's head back. I reckon Daisy will be waitin' lunch on us.” 

“Hello, Mistress Gamgee, Sam.” Frodo Baggins smiled brightly at them, blue eyes twinkling. “If you're going home would you like some company on the way?” He held up his own basket, which was brimming with packets and parcels. “I've finished my own shopping.”

“That would be grand, Master Frodo.” Bell shepherded Sam before her and tried to ignore a growing pain in her belly, and the growing fear in her mind. “How's all in Bag End?” They started up the hill with Sam trotting ahead and Bell tried to concentrate upon Frodo's pleasant chatter as she gratefully accepted his proffered arm. 

“I left Bilbo deep in some reading. A history of the Shire I think. I've been gone for an hour and I suspect when I return he won't even realise I've left the smial. You know how he gets. I've often known him forget to eat.”

Bell's scandalised expression brought a giggle to Frodo's lips. 

“I don't hold with missin' meals,” she announced, firmly. “A body needs regular feedin' to keep it tickin' right.” At present, she did not feel particularly like eating herself, and she was very aware that something within her own body was definitely not ticking right. Suddenly a particularly sharp pain made her gasp. 

Frodo's eyes widened in surprise as he dropped his basket to step in and support her, when Bell doubled up with a moan, clutching her waist. “Mistress Gamgee, Bell, what is it? Shall I send Sam for the doctor?”

When Sam would have run off Bell grabbed his arm. “No. Fetch Widow Tunnely.”  
They were gathering a concerned crowd and within minutes Farley Brownlock had brought up his hand cart and helped Frodo to load Bell into it, along with both household's shopping. No doubt Bell would have protested the indignity, had she been in any condition to do so. By the time Farley and Frodo arrived at number three Bagshot Row, Sam, Daisy and Aster Tunnely were waiting for them. Frodo and Farley helped Bell up the garden path, Frodo noting with alarm a large patch of blood on the back of her skirts. Hamfast Gamgee ran up just as they reached the door and, without a word, swept his wife into his arms and carried her off into the depths of Number Three.

Frodo and Sam were left standing in the Gamgee kitchen, joined by a wide eyed little Marigold. Both little ones looked to be on the verge of tears, so Frodo set them the task of putting away all the shopping. A few minutes later Daisy bustled in from the bedrooms to fill a basin with hot water from the boiler.

“Would you like me to refill the boiler for you,” Frodo asked as she turned to leave.

“My thanks, Master Frodo. That would be good of ye.” She eyed the little ones, as though seeing them for the first time.

“Don't worry about these two. I'll refill the boiler and then take them with me up to Bag End. They can stay overnight if needed. You just look after your mother.” Frodo began to fill a jug from the pump at the sink.

Relief spread across Daisy's face. “That would be a real help. Thank you very much. When I've time I'll come up and let you know what's happenin'.” She hurried from the room with her basin of hot water and a towel snatched from the rail above the fire.  
Marigold may not know precisely what was happening, but she knew something was very wrong and her face suddenly crumpled as tears began to roll down her cheeks. Sam was as perplexed as she but turned at once to hug his younger sister, even as his own eyes began to brim again.

Taking a moment to refill the boiler, Frodo added more wood to the fire before turning to deal with the two youngest Gamgees. He knelt before them and laid a hand upon each trembling shoulder. “We're going to visit Mr Bilbo for a while. Why don't you collect your favourite toys and then we'll go and have some luncheon?” He drew out his hanky to dab at Marigold's tear-flushed cheeks.

It was Sam who fished his sisters' favourite doll from beneath the table and, to Frodo's surprise, collected his slate and chalk. Taking one child in each hand he led them up the hill to the relative calm of Bag End.

-0-

“Are they sleeping now?” Bilbo asked when Frodo entered Bag End's parlour several hours later. He poured a cup of tea for his nephew.

Frodo collapsed into his arm chair with a loud sigh. “Yes. They're exhausted I think. I've set pillows around Marigold so that she doesn't fall out of bed, but she's so spent with crying that I doubt she'll move much.” He accepted the cup Bilbo held out. The tea was cooling but welcome, nonetheless. “Did I hear Daisy's voice as I was putting them to bed?”

Bilbo took a sip of his own tea before nodding. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Seems Bell Gamgee was expecting.”

He waited while the younger Frodo made sense of that statement, relieved when the lad's face cleared, and he need make no further explanation. 

“Oh. I did wonder when she asked for the midwife instead of the doctor.” Frodo had grown up in the warren that was Brandy Hall for long enough to have gained some understanding of the mechanics of reproduction. Among so many relatives there were usually several at varying stages of the process. “Has she lost the babe?”

Bilbo grimaced as he set his unfinished cold tea on the tray and held out his hand for Frodo's cup. “Yes. Let's go and make a fresh pot. I think we both need it.”  
Frodo followed his uncle into the kitchen, moving automatically to rinse cups and pot, refilling the milk jug while Bilbo placed a kettle on the hob. “Poor Mistress Gamgee. Will she be alright, do you think?”

Bilbo collected a couple of small plates and proceeded to cut some walnut cake, placing a slice on each. “Daisy says that Aster Tunnelly thinks she'll recover well physically. It seems Bell wasn't far along, so the only ones she had told were Daisy and Hamfast.” He paused to stare at the table top. “Daisy says her mother has been fretting about the babe from the first. It's funny how mothers seem to know about these things.” He drew a deep breath. “Hamfast asked if we'd be willing to keep the youngsters here overnight and I said we'd be happy to look after them for as long as they needed. I know that you have a knack with faunts.”

Frodo smiled weakly as he spooned tea into the pot, aware that faunts were not his uncle's strong point. “I think it was Mistress Gamgee who told me that the only knack you need with faunts is love.” He scrubbed at his eyes, which were watering for some reason. “Does Master Gamgee want us to tell them what has happened?”

Bilbo added hot water to the pot and stirred before replacing the lid. “No. Hamfast is going to do that when he comes to collect them tomorrow. Although I suspect he'll spare them the details. They only need to know that their mother is poorly and they already know that.”

Frodo found that he was rather relieved to be spared that task. “I know that Master Gamgee is due at the Sackville-Baggins tomorrow. I'll pop down later and tell them not to expect him.” Frodo poured fresh tea for Bilbo and himself.

His uncle nodded. “I suspect that even Lobelia will be understanding upon this occasion.”

Lobelia was understanding, as was the rest of Hobbiton. Bell and Hamfast Gamgee came to realise just how well liked they were, when offers of help and gifts of food and drink began to make their way up the hill to Number Three. Large families were common in the Shire and most had known their own share of disappointment in the process.

-0-

Some days later Frodo dropped a clean cloth over the plate of scones sitting on Bag End's kitchen table. “Where did you put that pie, Bilbo?”

“I have it here.” Frodo's uncle appeared in the doorway, a similarly covered dish in his hands.

Frodo bit his lip. “Are you sure Mistress Gamgee is well enough for visitors? Maybe we should just ask May to come up and collect these.”

Bilbo patted his nephew on the back a little awkwardly. “Don't worry, lad. Aster says the worst is over. Bell just needs to build up her strength.” 

Frodo held the door for his uncle. Bilbo may have lived many more years than his nephew, but Frodo had the benefit of spending his younger years within the extended Brandybuck family. It was difficult to keep secrets within the cheek-by-jowl existence of Brandy Hall and Frodo had overheard enough to know that there would be more involved in Bell's healing than “building up her strength”. Nonetheless, he followed his uncle down the hill to Number Three.

It was May Gamgee who answered their knock and she bobbed a welcoming curtsey. “Good day to you Mister Baggins, Master Baggins.” May had returned home within just four days of her mother's collapse, much to her older sister's relief. 

Bell's voice called softly from within. “Don't keep them on the doorstep, lass.”  
May exchanged a speaking glance with Frodo but opened the door wide so that they could enter.

The kitchen of Number Three was overly warm for the time of year and there was a subdued air that Frodo had never felt there before. Bell Gamgee sat in her rocking chair by the fire, a quilt tucked about her legs that she was trying to tug aside so that she could stand.

Bilbo set down the pie dish and waved her down at once. “No, no, Bell. You stay where you are. We won't be stopping for long. Frodo and I just wanted to pay our respects and bring a little something for your supper.”

Daisy appeared in the doorway to the bedrooms and Frodo shuffled his feet nervously. “I'll just put these in the pantry for you,” he announced, holding up the plate of scones and trying to make good his escape. Daisy collected the pie and followed him. If Bilbo noted the closing of the pantry door after them he decided to say nothing.

May moved a large black kettle onto the hob and went to rinse the huge brown teapot. “You'll want a cup of tea. I was just about to make a fresh pot.”

Bilbo smiled brightly as he settled himself in Hamfast's chair at the other side of the hearth. “Thank you. I never say no to a cup of tea.” He studied Bell for a moment.  
The hobbit matron before him was a pale shadow of the normally robust and smiling Bell Gamgee. It was clear that she had lost weight and there were no roses in her cheeks. But it was not just a physical loss, he realised at last. The fires of life that usually burned so brightly in her hazel eyes had faded, and several more grey hairs threaded the brown on her head. It was as though, he mused, the departure of the little bairn within her had taken some of her life with it. He wondered, almost idly, if it would have been a lad or a lass.

“Now, Mr Bilbo, don't ye go all soft on me,” Bell announced quietly when he was pensive for too long. Even her voice sounded thin, he noted.

Bilbo drew a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. “Soft? No Baggins has ever been described as soft,” he asserted firmly.

It had the desired effect and Bell's lips curled into the shadow of a smile. “That's better,” she announced with a veneer of brightness. “These things happen and I'll be right as ninepence in a few days. Ye'll see.”

Bilbo pursed his lips, not fooled for a moment. “These things happen? Yes, they do and with more frequency than we would like to acknowledge. But that does not make them any less sad. You don't fool me, Bell Gamgee.” He glanced aside to include May in his words. “You and all of your family have lost a bairn, and nobody will begrudge you a tear or two.”

Bell swallowed, gaze dropping to her empty lap. “May, lass, I think I left some of Mr Bilbo's mendin' atop the chest in my bedroom. Go fetch it if ye will.”  
May glanced at Bilbo, who gave a slight nod. When she was gone Bell turned brimming eyes upon him. “Aster said it were too small yet to tell whether twas a lad or a lass so I don't know why I'm so teary.”

“Oh, Bell. That doesn't matter. What matters is that it was a life growing inside you, someone to be loved and give love. You have a right to your sorrow.”

Bell fished beneath her blanket and produced a hanky, which she used to good effect on her nose. Bilbo noticed that although she was dressed, Bell was not wearing her apron. He could not remember ever having seen her without an apron and it was that, more than anything, that drove home to him how ill she had been. He waited until she tucked the hanky away before asking, “How is Hamfast doing?”

She smiled wistfully. “He's gettin on with things but I know he's hurtin. I think he's tryin to hide in his work and I don't blame him. He were so happy about this bairn, even though we weren't really expectin' another at our age. Some would say tis easier for the Da's but I got my lasses about me and he's only got little Sam. Tis not a talk a grown up can have with a faunt.”

Sensing her mother's distress little Marigold appeared from under the kitchen table, where she had been undressing her dolly, and clambered into her mother's lap. Bell gathered her close, kissing the crown of messy copper curls before beginning to rock. “Ham sits with me here on an evenin' and I know he's full of words but he can't speak 'em. I can't remember a time when we aint been able to talk about our troubles.” She looked across at Bilbo over the top of her daughter’s head. “Will ye do me a favour, Bilbo?”

The dropping of his honorific let the master of Bag End know that this was not going to be an easy task, but he squared his shoulders and nodded. “You know I will, Bell.”  
May returned at that moment, laying two of Bilbo's shirts on the table, pressed and folded. The lass moved silently to prepare tea and he was reminded once more that she was being trained as maid in a grand household . . . at least as grand as they came in the Shire.

Bell watched too and for a moment Bilbo thought that perhaps she had decided against her favour. Then she turned back to him. “Will ye take my Ham down to the Ivy Bush one evenin'? I think he'd like to share a half with the lads, as it were. He's been a rock to me but he's stickin' closer than is good for him. He needs to talk to someone and he's always respected ye.”

Bilbo nodded. “I'm not sure he'll talk about something like that with me, but he's calling around this afternoon to discuss the roses. I'll invite him then. It's been a few days since Frodo and I had an evening out so perhaps it will do us all good.” He accepted the cup and saucer May held out, noting it was one of Bell's best.

Inside the cool, dim pantry Frodo was pleased to note, from the groaning shelves, that the Baggins were not the only neighbours ensuring that Bell Gamgee and her family had plenty of good food to eat at this time. He turned, flinching when he found Daisy Gamgee close behind him in the confined space of the pantry, and had to lean aside so she could place Bilbo's pie on the shelf. He realised that he could not escape without squeezing past her and his mouth went dry, for Daisy Gamgee had been the bane of his life ever since his arrival at Bag End.

“Thank ye, Master Frodo.” There was no sign of the usual smirk . . . no coquettish sidelong glance.

Frodo cleared his throat. “It's nothing. Bilbo and I were baking this morning and it was easy enough to make a little extra. It's just some fruit scones and a chicken and mushroom pie . . . the least we could do.”

Daisy shook her head. “I wasn't thinkin' of the food. You got Ma home and you looked to Mari and Sam. That's worth more than any pie and I thank you.” Frodo was surprised to see tears welling in her eyes. “Ma could have died.” Her eyes widened, and she slapped a hand over her mouth as though to stop any further admissions. Now those tears slid down her face.

Frodo did not stop to think. He simply stepped forward and enfolded the lass in a hug. He, of all there, knew what it was like to lose a mother. Daisy laid her head upon his shoulder and wept silently for some time and he offered her his hanky when she finally stepped back.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that.” Daisy confessed as she dabbed at her eyes and then blew her nose, before offering a watery smile. “I'll wash this and make sure to get it back to you.”

Frodo offered a sympathetic smile of his own. “There's no hurry. I have plenty of hankies.” He glanced toward the door and grimaced. “I think we'd better return to the kitchen or they'll wonder what’s going on in here.”

A spark of the old Daisy surfaced. “Tweens and trouble,” she intoned with a twinkle and Frodo had to smother a grin as he followed Daisy back into the kitchen.  
Conversation stopped and Bell, Bilbo and May all looked up at their return. Frodo felt colour spread across his cheeks when he saw the questions in their eyes. It was Bilbo who spoke. “Did you get locked in?” he asked, with all the innocence of a dragon.  
Frodo’s mind ran on desperately. “We had to make room for the dishes. The pantry is quite full.” He could see the scepticism in every face.

Daisy snorted. “Twas certainly full with we two in it.” She grinned, looking at Frodo from under arched brows and, he did not think it possible but he felt his blush deepen.  
Bell's voice carried some of its old strength as she tackled her wayward tween. “Daisy Gamgee! Ye get out there and feed that sow!”

Daisy made not moue, gathering up the pail and flouncing through the back door, but Frodo caught a wink and her lips formed a silent, “Thank you.”

-0-

Bell rocked gently. The rocker was her chair, made by Hamfast when she was expecting their first. Aster Tunnelly said there would be no more children now, so Bell loved that chair all the more. It was where she had nursed all her brood throughout the years of her marriage. Now she sat by the hearth, with Sam at her feet as the evening closed in. “Bed time once this ball is finished, Sam,” she warned, softly. 

Her youngest lad nodded, on the edge of sleep as he watched his Ma's fingers spin hypnotically round and around, drawing the wool from the skein stretched between his hands to the ball in her own. His arms were aching, but he made no protest and there was something comfortable about sitting thus. Hamfast took Sam with him most days now, beginning to teach him the gardening trade, but since Bell's illness he always sent the lad home at teatime. The time between tea and bed was special to mother and son . . . just a wee bit longer for Sam to be a child and for Bell to hold onto him.

Ham would be coming home soon, and the kitchen was filled with the rich smell of mutton stew. The rest of the family had already eaten their share and the pot was set to one side to ensure the contents did not burn.

Two of her other children, May and Daisy, sat at the large, scrubbed kitchen table. Eglantine Took had sent May home for a visit as soon as word of her mother's illness reached Great Smials. Daisy was rolling her sister's hair in rags for her. Most hobbits had thick curly hair, but poor May's was what Mister Bilbo had once described as “over exuberant”. So, every time May washed it she tied it in rags to create tamer ringlets.

May and Daisy were born only four years apart but leaving home to go and work in Tookborough had forced May to grow up quickly. In Great Smials one more mouth to feed would go unnoticed among so many Tooks, but one less mouth to feed in the Gamgee household meant more food for the rest. Perhaps losing the bairn had been a good thing after all. Bell squashed that thought. They would have managed and May was thriving at Great Smials. 

The young lass' figure was filling out and there were roses in her cheeks. She had a ready laugh, particularly when regaling her family with tales of the doings in Tookborough. Indeed, May's arrival only a few days after Bell's collapse had been a blessing, providing as it did a spare pair of hands and a lightening of the mood in the Gamgee household. 

“Ma, can I have a drink of water?” Little Marigold Gamgee stood in the doorway leading to the bedrooms. Her faded nightgown was one of May's hand-me-downs and made her look even smaller.

Bell gave her youngest a stern gaze. “Ye should have been asleep hours ago.”  
Marigold knuckled her eyes and yawned before replying. “I was, but I woke up and now I'm thirsty.”

Bell thinned her lips to hide a smile. “Daisy, fetch yer sister a cup of water.” She fixed Marigold sternly once more before adding, “Then it's back to bed my lass. If ye sleep late tomorrow ye'll miss waving off yer sister.” Bell suspected it was May's imminent departure which was the cause of Marigold's insomnia. May had looked after her younger sister since Marigold could walk and at one time the two had been inseparable. Marigold had cried herself to sleep for several nights while Bell was ill and her mood only picked up again when May returned.

Daisy arrived with the cup of water and scooped Marigold into her lap at the table. Marigold snuggled in, sipping her water and watching sleepily as Daisy tied the last rags in May's hair.

Bell smiled fondly at the three sisters as both May and Daisy began to comb through Marigold's unruly copper locks. They all knew that, as May's had once been, the copper curls would be a knotted mess again by morning. Marigold's hair seemed to delight in curling itself into little clumps and any attempt to tame it was doomed to failure. Every morning Daisy and her mother tried and by lunch time on most days the ribbons had been lost and Marigold's hair looked as though she had been dragged through a hedge, backwards.

Bell had not been aware that she was reaching the end of the wool until it slipped through her fingers. She looked down at her hands in surprise, tucking in the end before adding the last ball to a pile in the basket at her side. “Time all my bairns were abed,” Bell announced as she stood, planting hands on hips and leaning back to stretch the kinks out of her spine.

Daisy stood too, balancing Marigold on her hip. The youngest Gamgee leaned her head on her sister's shoulder, sliding one thumb between rosebud lips. Used to this night time routine, Sam stretched up to receive his Ma's kiss. Smiling, she combed gentle fingers through his hair before cupping his cheek. “Off ye go now, my little lad. Sweet dreams. I'll come and tuck ye in, in a bit.”

“Yes, Ma.” Sam gave his Ma's waist a gentle hug before making for his room.

May and Daisy accepted their own kisses from Ma and Bell added a little tap on Marigold's button nose that made the faunt grin. “Into bed with ye all, and no natterin',” Bell warned. May and Daisy exchanged a glance but turned for their room meekly enough.

A few minutes later Bell made what she had come to call her 'rounds'. Sam was first. He was fast asleep already, sprawled on his tummy in the bed that was as yet too big for him. Bell straightened the quilt and remembered when her two oldest lads had shared this bed. They were apprenticed now, and Bell had not seen either of them for some time. One by one her brood were leaving the nest and Bell missed the noisy breakfast table, the arguments and laughter.

In the girls' room Marigold was also fast asleep and Bell straightened her blanket, pausing a moment to wrap a kiss curl about her finger. It didn't seem like five minutes since she sat in that rocking chair with little Mari suckling at her breast. Marigold would now be her last child and a part of her was saddened to think that her womb would never again quicken with new life. At the same time, another part of her knew that her body was ageing and each successive child had been more difficult to bear. The recent miscarriage had not been a wholly unexpected shock, for Bell had felt something wrong from the start. 

Turning to the larger bed she knew at once that Daisy and May were only feigning sleep. No doubt they were waiting to continue the whispered conversation their mother had interrupted upon entering the room. Bell smiled. May visited only a couple of times a year and it would do the lasses little harm to stay awake into the wee hours just this once. She bent to kiss each brow before creeping from the room. Sure enough, through the closed door, she heard their low voices and smiled as she turned back to the kitchen.

Bell glanced up at Mr Bilbo's old mantle clock and lifted the lid on the stew to give it a stir. Hamfast would be returning soon, hungry for his supper and offering Hobbiton gossip in exchange. She held a spill to the fire and went to light the candle in the window.

It seemed life went on.


	32. A Little Here.  A Little There

“Hello Sam. What are you doing?” Frodo hunkered down.

Sam was sitting on Bag End's kitchen step while his Da dug some potatoes for Bilbo. At his side was a basin of what looked to be river sand, two black smoothing irons, a cup of water and a couple of cloths. Sam held up one of the irons to reveal its plate, which was polished to a glassy smoothness. “Ma's set me to cleanin' her irons, so she can do the linens tomorrow. It goes toward earnin' my pocket money.” He offered a wide grin. “I get a whole farthin' every month, doin' jobs for Ma.”

The heir to wealthy Bilbo Baggins stored away that information. He and Bilbo would spend more than that on beer during one evening at the Ivy Bush. “I had no idea you had to clean irons.” Frodo ran a finger over some brown marks on the plate of the other iron, feeling a slight stickiness. “How can they get dirty when they're only used on clean laundry?”

Sam accepted the iron and dipped his cloth in water and then sand, before beginning to gently rub the iron sole-plate. “Ma says it's starch that does it and if we don't get rid of it, it leaves nasty brown marks on the clean clothes. But, Master Frodo, how come you don't know that?”

Frodo smiled ruefully. “When I lived at Brandy Hall we had a whole team of ladies who worked in the laundry.” His smile turned to a frown. “I don't know why Bilbo and I don't do our own ironing. Your Ma does most of it for us.”

Sam's mouth dropped open. “A team? How many is that, then?”

“I never counted, but the laundry room was huge, bigger than all of Bag End.”

Sam's mouth dropped further and he paused in his scouring. “How come? Folks must get awful dirty to get through that many linens.”

Frodo grinned. “Brandy Hall is very big, Sam and there are many families living in it. More than in the whole of Hobbiton, and possibly Bywater too, I think.”

Sam blinked, unable to wrap his imagination around such a place, then bent to his work once more. “Fancy that,” was all he could manage.

Standing, Frodo stretched. “Maybe one day you'll see Brandy Hall.”

Sam shook his head. “Tis a long way away and I'm not sure Ma would like me going over the river. She wouldn't let May go there, nor my brothers.”

Frodo giggled. “Ah yes.” He adopted his best Bell Gamgee imitation. “Aye, lad. Ye don't want to be going down there. They're queer folk down over the river.”

Despite himself Sam had to chuckle, for Frodo had caught her inflection near perfectly.

-0-

“And don't be too long,” Bilbo admonished as Frodo slipped out of Bag End's kitchen door. Cutting through the garden he leaped the fence before picking his way carefully through Hamfast Gamgee's potato crop. By the time he reached the shared yard behind the properties of Bagshot Row, Marigold Gamgee had spotted him.

Sam and Marigold had been banished from the kitchen to play. Using a stick, Sam had scratched out a hop-square grid in the hard packed earth of the yard. Now Marigold flung down her stone and ran to their neighbour, shrieking with delight. 

Frodo broke into a bright laugh and bent to scoop her up, swinging her in a circle as she giggled with glee. Then he tucked her into his hip and Marigold wrapped sturdy, sun bronzed legs about his waist, as she leaned in to give him a breathless and sloppy kiss.

Sam watched the antics from his place at the start of the grid, his small face wreathed in a grin. “Ma's ironin' so she sent us out to play,” he explained with a gesture to the markings on the ground.

“Frodo play,” Marigold demanded, firmly.

Her neighbour kissed her brow before setting her upon her feet. “I'm afraid I can't, Marigold dear. Bilbo wants me to help him prepare vegetables for supper and he's sent me on an errand to your mother.”

Marigold pouted, racing back to the grid and returning to thrust a small, round, flat stone into Frodo's hand. “Frodo play,” she asserted, with all the certainty of the very young that nothing could be more important than play.

Frodo looked down at an unbound halo of messy copper curls, bright round eyes more green than hazel and a dusting of freckles beneath the ever present smudges of dirt on her cheeks. He could do naught but relent. “Alright. Just one go, but I really can't stay for long or Bilbo will have my hide to bind a book.”

Marigold took his hand to drag him, not too reluctantly, to the beginning of the grid. There he stood, relieved to find that the game did not appear to be set out any differently to that which he had played as a faunt in Buckland. “Do I need to throw a six to start?” he asked Sam.

The youngster shook his head. “Us older lads and lasses do but I let Mari just start at the number one. She's not good at throwin' as far as the big numbers yet.”

Frodo hid a smile at Sam's reference to himself as an older lad, for Sam had only just turned fourteen, still a young age in the Shire, where one did not come of age until thirty-three. Still young enough to remember the importance of having just one more month on your companion, Frodo kept his thoughts to himself, and dropped the stone precisely on the square marked with a carefully inscribed number one. Hopping neatly over it, he continued to the top of the grid, skipping and hopping by two's and one's alternately, spun nimbly about and made his way back, collecting his stone at the last.

Marigold clapped wildly at his skill, refusing to let him depart until he had thrown the two and the three. When she would have urged him to continue, however, Frodo shook his head. “I'm sorry little Marigold, but I really must go. I promise to come and play with you on another day.” When she would have pouted he scooped her up once more, twirling her wildly before setting her down next to her older brother, and making for Number Three's arched back door.

The door was open and, peering in to the relative dimness of the smial's interior, Frodo could see that the round front door was open too. Even with the cross breeze this caused, Bell Gamgee's kitchen was so warm that Frodo could feel perspiration spring out on his brow as soon as he crossed the threshold. Bell Gamgee was concentrating upon her task and for several moments Frodo did not announce his presence, as something bid him pause to watch.

Half of the huge kitchen table had been layered with old blankets. The other half was filled by two heaps of linens, one fresh from the line, the other pressed smooth. The kitchen range was stoked and Frodo could see one smoothing iron sitting, plate down, on the hob. The other was on a metal trivet at Bell's side as she arranged one of Bilbo's best shirts on the blankets. There was a large basin at her side and Bell dipped her fingers in it, flicking cloudy, starched, water liberally over the fabric. Grabbing a pad made from old rags, she grasped the handle of the smoothing iron, pausing a moment to flick water on the sole-plate. Even from the doorway Frodo could hear the hiss and see droplets dancing across the hot metal, before they fizzled away. Bell began to apply the iron to cuffs and sleeves.

Suddenly, an image surfaced in Frodo's mind that he had not even known was there. Number Three's kitchen was overlaid by a smaller one and Bell by a younger lady, with glossy brown curls and dimpled cheeks. Primula Baggins had been taller than Bell, her waist much neater, for Frodo was her only child. Now she looked up, blue eyes twinkling and dimples flashing deeper. “Hello Master Frodo. What can I do for ye? Yer laundry aint finished yet.”

Frodo blinked and Bell Gamgee's homely features drew into focus as she flicked a quick glance his way before returning to her task. “I'm sorry, Mistress Gamgee. What did you say?”

Bell sniffed. “Aye, ye was away with the fairies there. Or was it elves? How long have ye been standin' anyway? Ye should have spoken up, lad. I said, what can I do for ye?” She went back to applying iron to shirt, with swift, sure movements.

If Bell seemed a little short tempered, Frodo put it down to the excessive heat in the room. Bell's salt and pepper hair was plastered to her head and large damp stains marked the under-arms of her blouse. Frodo noted that she had even loosened her bodice ties. No doubt she was rather uncomfortable, and Frodo felt a little guilty that she was so because she was dealing with Bag End's laundry.

When he did not reply immediately Bell set down her iron, taking in his expression at last. “Whatever is it, lad. Ye look like ye've seen a ghost.” She rounded the table to lead him to one of the benches at it's side. “There's naught wrong with Mister Bilbo, is there?”

Frodo hastened to put her mind at rest. “Oh no. Bilbo is as hale as ever. He sent me to pay for the laundry and to ask if you could spare some salt. We have completely run out and he wants to wash some cabbage.” He presented three copper farthings and Bell accepted them with a nod, dropping them into her capacious apron pocket.

Bell used her apron to mop her brow as she settled at his side on the bench. “I've plenty of salt and I'll pop some in a cup for ye. But what's made ye so pale, lad. Are ye sick?”

“No. No, I am well. I just . . . I saw you doing the laundry and I . . . I remembered another time.”

Bell waited patiently, knowing that the youngster would spit it out eventually. She did not have to wait for long.

“I was about Sam's age when my parents died. It was very sudden and I didn't cope with it well.” He swallowed as Bell took one of his hands gently in hers. “I'm afraid it hurt so much that I buried as many memories as I could.”

Bell wrapped a damp but comforting arm about his shoulders. “Aint nothin' to be ashamed of in that, lad. Ye were little more than a faunt and, as the only bairn I expect ye were closer than most. There's only so much pain a body can deal with and ye lost all.” Bell was as perceptive as ever. “Was it yer Ma ye was rememberin' then?” When she saw a tear trickle down Frodo's cheek she fished about in the laundry pile behind her and handed over one of his own crumpled but clean handkerchiefs.

Frodo swiped at his eyes and then blew his nose diligently. “I did not even know the memory was there. Mama was standing in the kitchen of our own little smial. She was ironing one of Papa's shirts, just as you are doing.”

Bell patted his hand. “Tis a good memory, lad. When I do the ironin' I'm doin' more than takin' out the creases ye know. Workin' in the home is a way of showin' love. All mothers know that. So ye're rememberin' a moment of love. Ye hold on to that.”

Frodo managed a watery smile. “But you're ironing Bilbo's shirt,” he pointed out.

Bell snorted, leaning back to chuckle. “And what's wrong with lovin' ye and Mister Bilbo? Mister Bilbo is as much an uncle to mine as he is to ye, if kindness is a measure. And ye're as much a son to me, if ye'll pardon me for takin' the liberty of sayin' so.”

“Oh Bell!” Bell braced herself as the youngster all but knocked her over, throwing himself into her arms. Then she enfolded him in an embrace that smelled of clean laundry and the indefinable fragrance of mother, dropping a soft kiss on his crown. They remained thus for a few minutes, then Bell released him, patting his cheek.

“Come on, lad. There's life to be lived. It was salt ye was wantin'.”

Frodo grinned as he made one final swipe at his tears with the hanky. “It was. At least this is one hanky that you won't have to iron today.”

Bell returned from her pantry, large tin in hand, from which she dispensed salt into a battered and handless cup. “It is. Although ye know I don't mind the ironin'.” She winked. “Not too much, anyways.”

Frodo accepted the proffered cup. “Thank you Mistress Gamgee. I shall return the cup and bring some salt tomorrow.”

Bell waved him away. “There's no hurry, lad. Ye get back to yer uncle or yer supper will be late. I'll send Daisy up with the laundry this evenin'.”

As Frodo was leaving Bell called, “And thank ye for playin' with Mari. She's come awful fond of ye this summer.”

Pausing at the door, Frodo turned. “I'm fond of her too. She's a sweet lass and I miss all my friends at Brandy Hall.” Then, with a wave to Sam and Marigold, he was out of the door and jogging back up the hill. 

That evening, Frodo and Bilbo sat at the cluttered table of Bag End's kitchen. Bacon, cabbage and mashed potato had been eaten and they were filling up the corners by nibbling on thick slices of seed cake with their second cup of tea.

“Bilbo, why don't we do our own ironing?”

His uncle chuckled. “You mean, besides my not enjoying the task?”

Frodo grinned. “I watched Bell Gamgee earlier and I confess that it looks to be hot work. But I have seen you iron collars and cuffs upon occasion.”

“I like to spruce my shirts up a bit if it's been a while since I wore them. But there's a big difference between sprucing up a collar and standing ironing piles of linen. Besides, the Gamgees can use the money. The older lads used to bring in extra coin before they left home, but they don't earn enough in their new jobs to be able to send any back and, even with May settled, Bell and Ham struggle sometimes.” Bilbo shrugged. “I have more money than I need so I share it, with a little here and a little there, throughout Hobbiton. Not charity, you understand. People around here are too proud to accept charity, but there is always some little job that needs doing.”

“Oh. I see.”

The two lapsed into companionable silence as Frodo considered Bilbo's words. Milk could be got from the market but Bilbo always tried to buy theirs from Arty Sedgeburry at Number One. Quite capable of doing his own clothing repairs, still Bilbo sent the occasional little sewing job to Clover Mugwort at Number Two, Bagshot Row. Frodo and Bilbo both liked their garden and would tackle a little pruning when it suited them, but Hamfast and Sam Gamgee did most of the digging, planting and weeding, whilst Bell and Daisy Gamgee did many of the big cleaning jobs at Bag End, along with the laundry. 

When he considered further Frodo realised that tinder that he would have happily chopped himself was purchased instead from Ackley Grubb, and Bilbo, who could easily afford to maintain his own pony and trap, always paid to travel with Tom Carter, ostensibly for the company. Indeed there were dozens of little tasks that either Frodo or Bilbo could have managed, which were instead paid for, putting coin into the pockets of some of the poorest folk of Hobbiton and its environs.

As heir to Bilbo Baggins, Frodo made a mental note of all these little folk, determined now to ensure that, when he came into his inheritance he would continue to help all of the Gamgee's, Sedgeburry's, Mugwort's, Carter's and Grubb's that he could.


	33. Le Suilon

LE SUILON

Winter gales had not yet stripped the trees of their gold and copper patchwork of leaves, and ripe hawthorn berries glowed in garnet clusters on the hedgerows. Murmurations of starlings flowed in vast shifting clouds against the sunset, and long chevrons of ducks winged south across a sharp blue sky. Mornings arrived with frosted edges, and a chill wind from the west prickled nostrils and watered eyes. The Baggins birthday had come and gone, with its usual fanfare. Now was the time for stockpiling logs and checking shutters, before the first winter storms came knocking against tightly closed round doors.

Bilbo set aside the last of his morning correspondence and poured himself another cup of tea. “Do you want yours topping up, lad?” He waved the teapot in Frodo's general direction.

Swallowing his last mouthful of toast Frodo shook his head. “If I have any more you will hear me sloshing all morning.”

His elder grinned. “It's good to know you've had enough of something. It never fails to amaze me, the amount of food a tweenage hobbit can put aside.”

Used to Bilbo's ribbing, Frodo giggled. “Most of the time, you eat more than I.”

Bilbo leaned back in his chair to pat his thickening waistline. “I am a gentlehobbit. One must look the part.”

Frodo only chuckled, as he began to gather the breakfast dishes. “Was there anything interesting in the mail?”

Bilbo sipped his tea. “Only the usual monthly letter from your Aunt Dora. She has instructed me to remind you to don an extra vest, now that winter is on the way. There now. I have done just that. Do with that instruction as you will.”

Pouring hot water into the sink, Frodo added the dirty pots. “I shall. I'm not even certain that I have enough vests to follow the instruction anyway.”

Turning in his seat, Bilbo reached across to the kitchen range, and fed Dora's missive to the flames. He replied airily, “Oh, don't let that stop you. I am sure Bell Gamgee or Clover Mugwort would be happy to make some more for you. Perhaps you could even persuade Daisy Gamgee,” he added with a wink.

“No thank you, Bilbo. I have sufficient. Will you be in your study today?”

Bilbo brought his cup to the sink and paused to look out of the kitchen window. “It's a lovely day.”

“It is.” Frodo washed his uncle's cup, then took up the tea towel to begin drying. “I thought I may go for a walk. We may not have many more days like this before the weather changes.”

Bilbo's face lit up and his eyes took on a twinkle that folk had learned to be wary of. “You are quite right, lad. We should take advantage of the dry weather.”

Frodo paused in his drying. “We?”

“Well, of course, 'We'. The tides will be at their height and the wind is steady. Perfect sailing weather.”

“Sailing? Bilbo, you don't own a boat, and Bywater pond is barely big enough to launch a curricle.”

His uncle clapped Frodo on the back. “Bywater? No Baggins has ever clambered into such a flimsy thing as a curricle. Anyway, I was not anticipating sailing myself.” Bilbo shuddered. “No. I was thinking of the sea. You have not seen the sea, have you?”

Frodo's gaze dropped for a moment. “Only in my dreams.”

“In dreams?” Bilbo gave his nephew an assessing gaze. “Frodo, you have a way of constantly surprising me.”

“Can we really go to the sea? Is it far away? Have you seen the sea?”

Bilbo frowned. “Well, I don't know the way myself. But at this time of year elves cross the borders of the Shire on their way to the havens. If we're lucky we can join them. I understand it's only about a week's journey to the coast from here, if we take ponies.”

“Will the weather hold for two weeks, do you think? It's getting a bit late in the year for such a long journey. And can we guarantee to even meet any elves? They surely don't travel every day. Will they even let us travel with them?”

“Goodness, what a worry-wart you have become, Frodo Baggins. Your grandmother was a Took. Where has all that adventurous spirit gone?”

The younger Baggins was not about to be accused of being a stick-in-the-mud. Besides, hadn't he always wanted an adventure, like his uncle? He squared his shoulders. “Alright. When do we go?”

“That's my lad! And if we don't meet any elves we will have had a few days out of doors at least. Perhaps we could chance going alone, at least to the Far Downs.”

Frodo's eyes widened. “As far as the Elf-towers? Have you seen them? Is the road safe for us to travel alone? It's beyond the Shire border and there may be big folk about.”

“What a barrel full of questions you have this morning, lad. If I were to answer them all it would be Yule before we set out. Go and pack your things, and then run down to the Ivy Bush and ask to hire three ponies.” Bilbo fished in his pocket, finally producing three silver pennies. “And don't let Borden Brewer charge you extra for the tack. He's a capital fellow but, if he thinks he can get away with it, he will try. Three pennies is quite sufficient for a fortnight's hire.”

When Frodo only stood, eyes still wide, Bilbo grabbed the tea towel from him and dumped the money into his now empty palm. “Well, go on, lad. I'll pack food and clear out the pantry. I'm sure folks on the row will be grateful for anything we can't take with us.”

Frodo needed no further prompting, slamming the front door in his haste, before sprinting down the lane.

-0-

In the end, Bell Gamgee accepted all the Baggins' spare food, in exchange for a fresh baked loaf, and promising to distribute this largess amongst all three households on the row. By lunch time they were waving goodbye to Arty Sedgeburry, from whom they had purchased some milk, and were taking the road down to Bywater and, from thence, the Great East Road. If folk in Bywater assumed that the Baggins' were heading off to visit their relations in Tuckborough, Bilbo did not enlighten them for, as he told Frodo with a wink, “We don't want every Bracegirdle and Chub sticking their noses into our business.”

-0-

Although it had been some years since Bilbo Baggins sat upon a pony, Frodo was more used to riding, for Brandy Hall kept many mounts. When they stopped to make camp for the night, in a dell by the side of the road, Frodo held back his laughter. Bilbo was supposedly seeing to the ponies, but he spent most of his time groaning as he hobbled and staggered, bow legged, about their little camp. In the end, Frodo took pity, suggesting that his uncle tend to the supper while he fed and watered their mounts.

Tending fire and brewing tea Bilbo could manage with ease. By the time his nephew had stretched out their canvas awning and unrolled their bedding, Bilbo had fried bacon, sausages and bread. Frodo had just time to wash his hands before all was ready.

“It's going to be another cold night,” the younger Baggins observed as he accepted his plate and a mug of tea.

“It is. Why is it that the stars always feel closer when one is camping out of doors?” Bilbo tilted his head to stare.

Above them, sharp pinpricks of light winked in and out. Some were solitary and sharp, others formed strange geometries, and still others clustered in a milky ribbon that trailed across the night sky. Bilbo was right. To Frodo they looked so close that he felt, were he just an inch or so taller and could stretch to his utmost, he would be able to touch one of those cold bright points. “Do elves really love them more than sunlight?” he asked.

Bilbo swallowed his bite of sausage. “They do. I suppose it was because that was the first thing they saw when they awoke, on the shores of Lake Cuivennion, all those ages ago. They made many hymns to them in Master Elrond's house.”

Frodo chewed on a piece of fried bread for a moment before asking, tentatively, “Will you ever go back there, do you think?”

“I'll not deny that I have considered it. It was the perfect place, if one enjoys eating or singing, or simply just sitting. And Master Elrond did invite me to return if I wished.” He glanced aside at his nephew, who appeared to have stopped eating. “But not for a long while I think. I have much to occupy me in the Shire for now.”

“Will you take me with you, when you go?”

Now it was Bilbo who stopped eating and he studied Frodo for a long time before replying. “Do you really want to leave all your friends and family, lad? There are corners of the Shire that you have hardly heard of, let alone explored.”

“But I don't think exploring them will be the same, without you.”

“Well now, that's very flattering. Thank you. But I am getting rather ancient, you know. Some exploring is better done with folk of your own age.”

Frodo laughed. “Bilbo! You're not old. Well, you are old but you do not act old. I bet you can still climb a tree every bit as fast as I.”

Bilbo preened a little. “Well, I'm fit enough, I grant you.” Then his gaze returned to the stars. “But inside . . . inside I live with too many memories.” He tapped his temple. “It's getting rather crowded in here.”

Frodo pondered on how many memories could be accumulated in a hundred years. Already there were days when even his twenty six year old mind felt over-stuffed. Perhaps that is why hobbits did not live as long as elves. With their bigger bodies it stood to reason that elves would have more space to store their memories.

Noting Frodo's silence Bilbo tapped his arm to draw his attention. “Don't worry, Frodo. I intend to see you properly settled and of age before I consider leaving. If you want to come with me then, nobody will be able to accuse me of carrying you off. If we left tomorrow I can just imagine your Uncle Saradoc's reaction.”

Frodo laughed at last. “He would probably explode, like one of Gandalf's fireworks.”

They sat together, chatting of this and that, late into the night, only retreating to their blankets when the moon was well along his path in the heavens. It was as cold as it's promise and both Baggins' awoke stiff and sore, but aches were soon worked off by striking their little camp and saddling the ponies. By the time they reached Michel Delving at midday, both were in good spirits, and they stopped at the Pony and Pickle for a luncheon of meat and potato pie with cabbage, washed down with a large mug of cider. Much fortified, they made excellent time and by evening they were well into the White downs. Once more, they camped in a clearing by the road and by lunch time of the following day they had reached the junction, where the Great East Road joined the road to Sarn Fords.

“There they are, Frodo. The Tower Hills. And there are the towers.” Bilbo pointed north, north west and then south west. 

Following his arm, Frodo gasped as he espied three spires, gleaming white in the sunlight. Even at this distance it was clear that they were excessively tall . . . taller than anything Frodo had ever imagined. “They're beautiful. I had not imagined anything so graceful.”

Bilbo nodded. “Elves certainly know how to create beauty. They call those hills the Emyn Beraid. The towers were built by Gilgalad, the elven king I told you of. Master Elrond was his herald in the last great war.” He pointed again, to the one which stood taller and a little apart, to the left. “I don't know whether the other two have names but that one is called, Elostirion. It is not clear, from this distance, but that is the farthest west of the three. They say that at one time it was possible to see the elven lands to the West from its pinnacle.”

“Much as I would like to see that, I'm not certain I'd want to climb so high to do so,” Frodo confessed with a shudder.

Bilbo grinned. “You have a point. Not quite like climbing the oak tree atop Bag End, is it?”

“Have you been close to them?” Frodo asked.

Bilbo shook his head. “No lad. In truth, this is about as far west as I've ever been. Maybe this will be my chance to explore further.” He dismounted. “But not today. We shall camp here for the rest of the afternoon and tonight.”

“But shouldn't we be moving on?” Frodo scanned the sky, which was beginning to show a few wisps of high cloud. “The weather may not hold, this late in the year.”

“No, lad. If we are to meet elves this is the most likely place. They either travel from the lands to the south east, along the Sarn Road, or they travel from the east, along the Great Road. So this junction is the best spot to wait.”

“It is awfully exposed but at least that will make it difficult to miss them,” Frodo commented as he looked about them. They were at the southern most end of the Far Downs, which folded away into the distance on their right. Behind them there was the rich farmland of the West Farthing, with the rolling hills of the White Downs in the distance, on whose farther side was Michel Delving. With the harvest already gathered in, nothing moved in the vast landscape and the only trees were those dotted in the hedgerows of the farmland.

Already unpacking their cooking gear, Bilbo chuckled. “Trust me. If the elves decide to remain unseen we shall know nothing of their passing. But I have spoken with elves close to here before. So they may decide to slake their curiosity at seeing two hobbits upon the very edge of the Shire.” He glanced about them, finally spotting a small stream. “Talking of slaking, you'd better take the ponies to drink.” He tossed a water-skin to Frodo. “And you'd best refill this if you want a cup of tea.”

Later that evening they sat about a cheery fire and Bilbo told Frodo of the doings of the great elven king, Gilgalad. It was during a gap in his narrative, when Bilbo disappeared to take care of a call of nature, that one of the ponies began to stamp and whicker. Worried, Frodo went to investigate.

Rather than trust to hobbling, Frodo had stretched a rope between two low gorse bushes and tethered the ponies to it. They were close enough to the camp to be heard, but far enough to avoid any possibility of them taking fright from the unpredictable flicker of the fire. Now Frodo bent to select a stone, aware that some of the local farmers told tales of wolves roving the wild borders.

The possibility of big folk, so far from their lands to the south, had not even occurred to the lad, so when his legs were swept out from under him, Frodo could only stare up in shock at the huge figure, that was holding a long, slightly rusty, but wickedly sharp sword point to his throat. The lower half of the man's face was covered by a straggly and unkempt beard, that parted to reveal two rows of rotting teeth. “Best stay put, little shire rat. I'm feelin' generous tonight but if you gives any trouble it makes no never-mind to me to be slitting yer gut.”

“I got t'other un.” A wicked laugh issued from somewhere to Frodo's left. “Caught 'im with 'is breeches down, so to speak.”

Despite the sword, Frodo tried to struggle to his feet. “Bilbo?” He was stopped by the simple expedient of a heavy boot, planted firmly in the centre of his chest. His question was answered, however, when Bilbo landed with an, “Oof!” on the ground at his side. When Frodo struggled further, indeed putting himself in danger of being gutted, Bilbo managed to gasp out, “I'm alright lad. Just damaged my dignity.”

A second man leaned in to Bilbo's face to cackle, “I could change that, shorty. Just give me a reason.”

Even from a couple of feet away Frodo grimaced as the man's foul breath drifted his way, and he noticed Bilbo gag. Still, he was impressed when his uncle spoke up. “We have nothing worth stealing. We're just on a riding holiday.”

Frodo's captor threw his head back to laugh loudly, apparently finding this highly amusing. “Did you hear that, lads? A ridin' holiday! Aint we caught a posh pair?”

Another man appeared, as disreputable in his looks as the others. Frodo noted that he held the leading reins of all three ponies. “If they's that posh they'll have coin.”

The ruffian holding Frodo began to fish about in the pockets of his clothing, pausing to finger the fine silk of the waistcoat for a moment before moving on to his breeches. Fortunately, Frodo had brought little money with him, relying upon his uncle's generosity to provide their needs. Still, from the reaction, his captor considered the few copper coins a treasure. “Yer right, Col. Check yours. He looks like a proper gent.”

Col bent to rummage in Bilbo's clothing, but as soon as his hand came close to the waistcoat pocket, the older hobbit exploded into action, putting up such a fight that Frodo was fearful that Col would murder him, there and then. He could not understand what had got into his normally calm uncle, for Bilbo behaved as though he carried all the treasure of the Shire about his person.

Then, quite suddenly, Col stopped. Frodo watched in confusion as Col's leering face morphed into surprise, and then horror, as he straightened. When he was upright once more his body continued to lean back, and back and back, until he landed with a thud upon the ground. It was only then that Frodo saw the sharp, leaf shaped point of an arrow, protruding from Col's chest.

“'ere. What's goin' on?” was all Frodo's captor had time to shout before he too fell to one side, a finely feathered shaft protruding from the centre of his forehead.

The third ruffian dropped the reins and turned to run, but he too, fell. Frodo clambered up, quickly, casting about frantically to establish whether the newcomers were friend or foe. That was when a soft voice murmured from the darkness beyond the fire, “Peace, Little Masters. We come to help, not to harm.”

From the corner of his eye, Frodo saw Bilbo scrabble frantically in his waistcoat pocket, stopping with a sigh when he apparently found what he was searching for. He made a mental note to ask his uncle about it later, but for the moment there were more important matters to attend to. “Who are you and why won't you show yourself?” Frodo demanded, disappointed when he heard his voice tremble.

All about them a soft silver glow appeared, as moonlight shimmers from behind a cloud. The glow coalesced into several tall and slender figures as cloaks were thrown back. A silver haired male stepped forward. “We did not wish to startle you with our presence, but there, I believe our actions failed us.” He held out a hand to Bilbo and drew the hobbit easily to his feet.

Bilbo straightened his clothes before executing a deep bow. “I thank you for your timely action sir. Ni veren an le ngovaned.”

Frodo watched finely arched brows rise on a smooth forehead. “A happy meeting, indeed. You speak our tongue very well. But where are my manners?” He touched hand to heart, inclining his silver head. “I am Gillas of the house of Inglorian. My companions and I are returning from escorting some of our folk to Mithlond.”

Bilbo smiled. “I am Bilbo Baggins, of Hobbiton in the Shire and this is my nephew, Frodo Baggins. We were on a little riding expedition when these ruffians attacked. We are very fortunate that you were passing.” 

Frodo executed his best bow and murmured a little uncertainly, “Le suilon.”

“Greetings to you, too. May we join you for supper? We have provisions and would offer you what protection we can for this night at least.” 

“Oh yes. Please feel free. Our camp, such as it is, is yours.” Bilbo smiled widely.

At a flick of Gillas' finger the other elves advanced, setting down bows and sheathing gleaming swords. Frodo watched in fascination as they moved about the small camp silently, mending the fire, returning the ponies to their line, unpacking food and drink and spreading thick blankets. Others of their number removed the bodies of the unfortunate ruffians. Frodo did not follow to see what was done with them, but those elves were some time in returning. He liked to think that such high folk would give the men a decent burial.

Soon all were settled in a wide circle about the expanded fire. Bilbo and Frodo's rations were supplemented by finely roasted meats, delicately seasoned vegetables and bread so soft and light that Frodo dare not set it down, for fear it would float away. This was followed by sweet brambles and crisp apples, and washed down by draughts of cool, clear wine.

When all had eaten their fill, Gillas turned to Bilbo. “Tell me, Master Baggins, what brings you to the far borders of your homeland? The wilds are no place for folk who have not the means to defend themselves.”

Bilbo cleared his throat, obviously a little abashed. “I had thought that we would be safe this far west. Most of the big folk only touch our eastern borders, and Frodo and I wanted to see the elf towers.”

“And even, perhaps, the elf havens?” Frodo added, eagerly.

Gillas shook his head. “That is at least another three days journey from here and, as you have just learned, the roads are not as safe as once they were. You would be wise to turn back on the morrow for I cannot spare any of my party to accompany you further. Within two days we must meet others of our folk, by the fords of Sarn, so we dare not tarry long.”

Frodo's excitement was now over-ridden by disappointment. “I suppose we must turn back, then. I wish we had seen the towers more closely, though. They looked very beautiful, even from a distance.”

“They are indeed, although two at least have fallen into disrepair of late. They were built for King Elendil but his line has faded, and those who remain have no use now for towers so far north.”

Frodo was captivated by the fair faces about him. “Bilbo has been telling me of the elven king, Gilgalad. He says it was he who built the towers. I understand that Gilgalad fought and fell in a great battle, but who was he?” 

To his surprise, it was not Gillas who replied, but another of their number, who took up a small harp and began to play. All about the fire, sweet voices arose in delicate harmonies. At first Frodo was disappointed for their words flowed to quickly for his comprehension, but then he found himself drifting upon the melody. Melody became image and image became story . . . story became dream.

When next Frodo opened his eyes he looked about him in confusion. It was daylight and the elves were gone. The fire was gone too. Indeed, the landscape was gone. All that remained was Bilbo, Frodo, and the ponies.

“Bilbo! Bilbo, wake up!”

“Wha? What is it lad? Is the smial on fire?” Bilbo rubbed bleary eyes, then blinked as he took in their surroundings. 

“How did we get here, Bilbo?” Frodo pointed to a line of low hills, upon the horizon of which could clearly be seen smoke, from the chimneys of Michel Delving. His eyes widened. “Was it elvish magic, do you think?”

Bilbo stood, setting hands on hips and looking down the road to the west. “Magic? Perhaps. But I suspect it more likely that Gillas' folk carried us while we slept. Very kind of them I must say, but I would have liked to talk a little longer.”

Frodo laughed. “You may have talked for longer, but I think I need to brush up on my Sindarin before I try that again.”

“Well, I can help you with that at least. Come on. Help me saddle the ponies. If we make good time we can have breakfast in Michel Delving.”

 

Gillas = Silver leaf  
Ni veren an le ngovaned = I am happy to meet you  
Le suilon = I greet you


	34. There Is A Time

“Yes, Master Frodo. I'm afraid you have the influenza.” Doctor Brockleby straightened and Bilbo leaned in to tuck the covers about his nephew's shoulders.

“How long will he be sick?” Bilbo asked, worriedly. He never suffered from such things nowadays, and paid little attention when illnesses washed through the rest of the population.

“Hard to say. When did you first start feeling unwell, young master?”

Frodo's voice was little more than a rasp. “Sore throat yesterday. Not dizzy until today.”

Brockleby nodded. “Did you go to market on Hevensday, by any chance?”

It was Bilbo who answered, to save his nephew's voice. “Yes. I sent him down for some pies and a chicken.”

“I suspected as much.” The doctor turned back to Frodo with a wry smile. “You're my sixth patient this morning, and you all attended market on Hevensday.”

Bilbo frowned. “Was it the pies, then?”

“The pies? Oh . . . no . . . not any of the foods. Influenza seems to be spread from person to person, by touch. One of the pie sellers had travelled in from Overhill, where they've nearly all had it of late.” Brockleby tightened his lips in disapproval. “Their healer should have known better, and told everyone to stay put. But there, I suppose pie sellers have to make a living to feed their families, just like the rest of us. This sickness started away out in Buckland they say. Brought in by a trader from Bree. Since then it's been working it's way West through the Farthings.”

“Tom Carter said there were several cases of influenza in the surrounding villages, but I didn't realise it was quite that bad. I suppose we should be glad it's nothing deadly,” Bilbo noted.

The doctor paused in fastening his cloak. “Young Frodo, here, should recover with a few days rest. If he develops a cough or becomes delirious, call me back. It's the elderly and the bairns that we have to worry about. I'm afraid their breathing can get so poor that they become overwhelmed by the sickness.” He frowned across at Bilbo, who was nearly twice the doctor's age. “You'd best take care of yourself, Mister Baggins. Make sure that you wash whenever you've been in this room.”

Bilbo waved his hand, dismissively. “Don't worry about me. I never get sick. My constitution has been that of an ox ever since my travels.”

Doctor Brockleby humphed. “Well, just be careful and try not to touch anyone else. Even if you don't suffer yourself you could pass it on to someone, just by having touched Frodo. Speaking of which, may I wash my hands before I leave?”

“Yes. Of course. Follow me.” Bilbo led Brockleby from the room, pausing to tell Frodo, “I'll be back in a few minutes, lad. Try and have a nap.”

Frodo found no difficulty in complying.

-0-

Later that afternoon Bilbo was disturbed from his reading by a knock at the door. He glanced across at Frodo, who was no more than a lump beneath the covers. The lad did not move, so Bilbo tiptoed from the bedroom and down the hallway, before any further knocking awoke the lad. When he opened the door it was to find Bell Gamgee, covered tray in hands.

Her voice was soft as she handed over her offering. “I heard about Master Frodo. There's nothin' goes on in this row, but that Clover Mugwort don't know about it. She stopped Doctor Brockleby as he was leavin'.” She tweaked aside the cover on the tray to reveal a bowl of chicken broth, a large jug of fresh milk and a jar of honey. “I'll bring some soft bread rolls later. I've left Sam tendin' the dough now. “How is the Master Frodo?”

Bilbo turned to set the tray atop a box in the hallway. “Forgive me for not inviting you in, but Doctor Brockleby has told me I should limit my contact with others, for fear of passing on the influenza.”

“That's alright sir. Clover told us he'd said as much. How's the lad copin'?”

“He's been doing a lot of sleeping. It's very good of you to bring this but you really shouldn't be here Bell. You could catch the influenza simply by handing over that tray.”

Bell smiled ruefully. “My Ham was at market on Hevensday, too. We had some extra parsnips that we thought would bring in a couple of pennies. He came down with the sickness this mornin'.”

“Oh Bell, I'm so sorry. How are the youngsters? And what about you?”

“I'm a farmers daughter. We're a hardy lot but if I catch it, I catch it. There's nothin' to be done about that. Daisy's went down to tend Pansy Goodbody yesterday. The old widow's got it bad and her sister won't go near.” Bell's sniff told Bilbo all he needed to know about her opinion of Caly Berrydown. “If you need anythin' in a hurry, come knock at my door. Sam and Mari seem healthy for the moment, so I'll send 'em up once a day to see yer alright.”

“Thank you. Bell Gamgee you are a treasure.”

Bell chuckled as she drew her shawl over her head against the cold. “I'm only doin' what most folk would.” With those words she turned for home.

-0-

Of the next days, Frodo remembered little, other than that Bilbo was there whenever he awoke, plying him with light broths and warm milk, laced with honey. Much to Bilbo's relief, the feared delirium and cough did not materialise, and by next Hevensday the lad was sitting up in bed, pale and weary but otherwise feeling much better.

Frodo's eyes widened appreciatively as a tray was deposited in his lap. It contained porridge, with cream and honey, a cup of milky tea, soft buttered bread (for his throat was still a little sore from all the coughing he had been doing over the past days), a soft boiled egg, and some apple, stewed with sultana's, cinnamon, and lots of brown sugar. “Dig in, lad. I had mine half an hour ago.”

“Thank you, Bilbo. It does feel good to be able to eat again.” Frodo dipped his spoon into the soft golden centre of the boiled egg. “What's been happening in Hobbiton? It feels like an age since I was out of doors.”

His uncle grinned as a stray gust of wind spattered the bedroom window with fat drops of rain, setting the fire hissing and sputtering as some came down the chimney. “I don't think you'd want to be out of doors in this weather,” he observed wryly.

“You may be right. But what of Hobbiton? I seem to remember Doctor Brockleby saying that others had caught the influenza too.”

Bilbo drew up a chair to the bedside. “They have indeed. Hamfast Gamgee got it at about the same time as you, although I understand he was up and about yesterday. Sam and Bell have not caught it yet, but little Marigold has it now. This sickness seems to be worst for the very old and the very young.”

Frodo set down his spoon. “Mistress Gamgee must be beside herself. Marigold always suffers with her chest when she gets a cold.”

Bilbo waved toward the tray. “Now, don't you stop eating. The best thing you can do to help is to get well. Bell has been sending young Sam, running back and forth with food for days now. Once you're able to fend for yourself we can return the favour. Half of Hobbiton has the sickness. Doctor Brockleby has insisted that they close the taverns and Hevensday market has been cancelled this week. I've even heard a rumour that he's been taken with the influenza himself.”

Frodo took up his spoon again, albeit reluctantly. “Then, as soon as I feel a bit stronger, I shall see what I can do to help. At least if I've had the sickness I won't be able to catch it again. I could be very useful.”

Bilbo's tone was firm as he wagged a finger at his nephew. “Not until you are fully recovered, Frodo Baggins! Doctor Brockleby warned me not to let you do too much too soon, or you could relapse.”

Frodo's blue gaze looked mutinous for a moment, but he said nothing, only returning to his breakfast. Bilbo suspected that the lad would be out of that bed and about Hobbiton, far sooner than Doctor Brockleby would like and, short of tying him down, there would be little that Bilbo could do about it.

-0-

Frodo knocked at Number Three's yellow door, hunching his shoulders against a chill wind and drawing his cloak closer over the basin he carried. Fortunately, he did not have to wait for long before Sam Gamgee admitted him.

Hamfast Gamgee looked across from the sink, where he appeared to be washing the second breakfast pots. “Mornin' Master Frodo. Tis good to see you up and about at least. Feelin' better are you?”

“Yes. Thank you Master Gamgee. It's good to see you too. Bilbo and I thought you would like some chicken broth. I expect you don't much feel like cooking at present.” His gaze was drawn to the range, where Bell Gamgee sat in her rocking chair. Little Marigold Gamgee was visible only as a bundle of quilts in her mother's lap. “How is she?” Frodo asked, softly. 

Bell offered a weak smile. “She's asleep at last, though I'm not sure if that's good or bad. She won't sleep nowhere but in my arms, bless her.” 

“Do you need any food fetching or errands run?” Frodo handed over the basin to Hamfast, who set it upon the otherwise empty table. Frodo could remember few occasions when that table had not been hosting either food or one of Bell Gamgee's many household jobs.

“Thank you kindly, young master, but me and Sam will manage now.” Ham was about to turn away when he changed his mind. “There is one thing, if you will. I'm supposed to go tend Mistress Sackville-Baggins' garden today, but I don't want to leave home for too long at present. If you're up to the walk, maybe you could let them know?”

“Of course. Perhaps I can check in on Daisy for you at the same time. She's with Widow Goodbody, isn't she?”

“Yes, sir. That would be a great kindness. We ain't heard from her for two days and we've been frettin' she may have got the flu herself.” Ham laid a large and capable hand upon his wife's shoulder.

“Consider it done.” Frodo pulled up his hood and Sam ran to open the door for him. “I hope Marigold is feeling better soon,” he added as Sam closed the door after him. Even as he said it, the sentiment felt inadequate.

-0-

“Go away!” Lobelia Sackville-Baggins' voice was unmistakeable, despite issuing from behind a stout and firmly shut, possibly even barricaded, wooden door.

Frodo sighed. “It's Frodo, Aunt Lobelia. Won't you let me in? It's awfully cold out here.”

“Certainly not! You have the influenza. Doctor Brockleby told me. I'll not have you in my smial.”

“I'm better now, Aunt. Is anyone sick here? Do you need any help?”

“No. We're all well and we're going to stay that way. Go away!”

Frodo rolled his eyes. “Alright. I only came with a message from Master Gamgee. He says he will not be able to come and tend your garden today, because his youngest is very sick.”

“What!” The volume in Lobelia's voice actually made Frodo take an involuntary step backward. “How am I supposed to feed us if he doesn't come to dig the vegetables?”

Frodo was perplexed. “If you are all well, why can't Lotho or Otho dig them? It's not a big job and, in your own garden, you're not likely to encounter anyone else.”

Frodo recognised the bored tones of Otho Sackville-Baggins. “Frodo Baggins, that may be normal for young gentlehobbits in Buckland, but it is not appropriate in Hobbiton. How are we to keep the respect of our inferiors if we are seen doing such menial tasks?”

“Then, as my reputation is already sullied, perhaps I could dig some vegetables for you. Where do you store your tools?” Annoyed as he was, Frodo recognised that his relations would probably rather starve, than do their own gardening. He could not bear the thought of even his Aunt Lobelia starving.

There was a whispered conversation behind the door before Otho called out, “In the shed by the back door. You had best dig enough for several days.”

Selecting a shovel and a fork, Frodo set too with a will, lifting potatoes, turnips, carrots and parsnips. He placed them on the back doorstep, before cleaning his tools, as he had seen Hamfast Gamgee do a hundred times, and replacing them neatly in the shed. He would not have it said that he did a poor job, even a so-called menial one.

When he looked up he could see Lobelia, Lotho and Otho standing at the kitchen window. They all looked disgustingly healthy. If he expected thanks for his efforts he was to be disappointed. “You may leave now,” Lobelia sniffed. “I do not want you around when we unlock the door.”

Frodo stepped back before executing a sweeping bow. The implied insult was lost upon Lobelia, however, who shouted, “And do not forget to return in two days time. We will need more potatoes by then.”

Frodo strolled down the path, making a mental note to return in three days. It would do the Sackville-Baggins good to tighten their belts for a day.

On his way back through Hobbiton Frodo had time to look about him. There were very few folk out and about, and those who were did not stop to pass the time of day. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry to get to where they needed to be, and to slam the door shut behind them. It was some surprise then, to see Daisy Gamgee sitting, huddled in a cloak and quilt, on the seat in Pansy Goodbody's front garden. “Hello Daisy. Your parents sent me to make sure you were still well.”

Daisy lifted red-rimmed eyes and swallowed hard before replying. “I'm well . . . but . . .”

Frodo's gaze was drawn to the open door of Pansy Goodbody's little smial. “Pansy?” He could not bring himself to ask the question that he knew he should.

Daisy shook her head as tears rolled down her cheeks. “She went durin' the night. I've been sittin' here wonderin' what to do. It don't seem right to just leave her. I helped Ma with a layin' out once, so I've done that for Pansy, as best I can. But I can't carry her all the way to the cemetery.”

“Of course not. You're probably worn out already. You go tell her sister. Caly will want to be at the funeral. Then nip up to Bag End and let Bilbo know. He once mentioned he was very fond of Pansy. I shall fetch Birky Bracegirdle.”

When Frodo would have hurried away Daisy stopped him. “Birky's sick too. I heard Bill Bracegirdle say so yesterday. So there's no-one to dig the grave.”

Frodo blinked. It seemed it was to be his day for digging. “Alright. You go and tell Caly, then explain matters to Bilbo, and tell him I shall need his help with the digging.”

“Diggin'? You're goin' to dig the grave yourself?”

“I don't see that we have any option. Poor Pansy can't stay there until Birky is well enough. I can borrow a cart and tools from him and, between us, Bilbo and I will probably manage. It won't be the neatest grave but I think Pansy will forgive us.”

Daisy closed the door to the little smial, with a whispered farewell to its occupant, before joining Frodo at the gate. “Thank you, Frodo.”

“It's my pleasure to help, Daisy. And don't forget to call in at Number Three when you're done. I think your family will be very pleased to see you.”

By the time Frodo had borrowed all the equipment needed and returned to Pansy's smial, Bilbo was waiting for him. It was clear that he had shed a few tears and Frodo lowered the cart handles to come and stand by his uncle. “I thought you would want to know, but if this will be too hard for you I can probably manage alone.”

Bilbo sniffed. “Nonsense, lad. You're only just recovered yourself. You can't be digging a grave all alone. Come on. I'll help you carry her out to the cart. It probably won't be a big task, Pansy was never a plump lass.”

Pansy's grave was half dug when Nedes and Bartimus Brockbank arrived, for Daisy had taken it upon herself to knock at their door on the way home. They took over from Bilbo and Frodo to finish the hole, then all four lowered the small bundle that was Pansy Goodbody into the ground. Most hobbit's did not bother with coffins so they were spared that problem at least, having heard from Nedes that Carpenter Buckleby was also abed with influenza. Of Pansy's sister, Caly, there was no sign, and Frodo afforded her the assumption that the absence was because she, too, was ill. Nedes was smoothing the mounded earth, and a tearful Bilbo was carving Pansy's name into a piece of wood, when Flora and Bert Fennelly arrived.

Frodo's heart sank and he and Bartimus could only stand in silence as Bert walked toward them. A blank faced Flora stood at the gate, two year old Daffy upon her hip, and a small hemp shopping bag in her other hand. The little lass was asleep, head upon her Mama's shoulder and one little thumb tucked between rosebud lips. Her twin, Dilly, was in her father's arms. but she was not asleep, lest it be the final sleep that we all must take. 

When Bert stood before him, his eyes beseeching, Frodo looked down. Dilly was wrapped tightly in her Mama's best shawl but her parents had been unable to cover her sweet, pale face. “We couldn't close her away,” Bert explained. All Frodo could see was little Marigold Gamgee, silent in her Mama's arms. It stirred up other pain, long pushed down, and Frodo glanced aside for Bilbo's aid, but Bilbo was lost in his own sadness as he knelt at Pansy's graveside. 

It was Bartimus who came to his friend's rescue. “Where'd you like us to dig, Bert?”

“Yonder corner. Her Granny is over there. She'll not be lonely beside her.”

Frodo, Bartimus and Nedes, with Bert and Flora in tow, crossed to the southwest corner of Hobbiton's well tended graveyard. There, beside the marker for Perewinkle Fennelly, they dug a tiny grave. When it was done, the lads stood back to give Flora and Bert some privacy. Flora was crying silently, cradling her living daughter close, as she knelt beside the small hole in the ground. Bert lowered himself into the hole, barely big enough to contain him, and placed sweet little Dilly at his feet. Finally, he drew a fold of the shawl over her still face, and Bartimus leaned in to help him out of the hole.

When Nedes would have begun filling the grave Bert stopped him, taking the shovel to perform this last loving duty for his little lass. Flora handed the still sleeping Daffy into Frodo's care and, when the last shovel of dirt was in place, she smoothed the tiny mound with her bare hands, before reaching into the bag at her side to produce a handful of fat, dry, flower bulbs. These, she and Bert tucked into the soft earth. In spring there would be a beautiful display of daffodils in this corner. Bert also pulled from the bag, a rudely carved piece of wood, upon which he had painted his daughter's name, along with the dates of her birth and death. The dates were far too close together for the comfort of all the small burial party.

Daffy began to stir, fretfully, as they finished and Flora took her back at once, bending to kiss rich brown curls. “Tis alright, little lass. We're goin' home now. Ye need yer dinner.” Bert paused long enough to shake the lad's hands, then followed, head down, in his wife's wake. 

Nedes began cleaning his shovel as all looked back, across the peaceful graveyard. It was still and empty, but for Bilbo, now climbing to his feet. The usually green yard was scattered with the brown hummocks of new graves, for it seemed several others had performed their own lonely ceremonies over recent days. The newly qualified grave diggers joined Bilbo at the gate.

Bilbo touched each lad's shoulder then linked arms with Frodo, to lead them across the Water and up the hill. Bartimus and Nedes took barrow and tools back to Birky Bracegirdle's shed on their way home, while Frodo and Bilbo climbed the unusually silent lane of Bagshot Row. With an unspoken accord they turned in at the gate of Number Three and knocked at the round yellow door, just as the first raindrops began to all.

Once more it was Sam Gamgee who answered and, despite the unaccustomedly weary cast to his young hazel eyes, he offered them a broad smile. “Come in, sirs.”

When they stepped in, letting Sam close the door after them, Frodo could instantly feel a difference in the air. Ham and Daisy were sitting at the table and Bilbo waved them down when they would have got to their feet. “No, no. Today is no time for ceremonies,” Bilbo assured them.

“Frodo, play?” The lad's eyes were drawn at once to the place he had been avoiding since entering. By the hearth Bell still rocked but, sitting upright, in her lap was a pale but grinning Marigold Gamgee.

Frodo had to swallow several times, and still he could not speak past the lump in his throat. Bilbo finally came to his rescue. “Hello Marigold.” He held out hands that were still covered in soil. “I'm afraid we are late for our luncheon and we really must wash our hands first. Perhaps Frodo can come and play with you tomorrow.”

Bell's eyes narrowed as she took in the unusually grubby state of these two gentlehobbits. “Mayhap that would be best. Mari is goin' to have a nap soon anyhow. Why don't ye pop over for elevenses tomorrow, and ye can tell how ye came to be all over muck.”

Bilbo glanced down to discover that his clothing looked as disreputable as his hands, and offered a weak smile as he steered his silent nephew out of the door. “Perhaps that's a tale for brighter times.”

Once back in their own cosy smial Bilbo filled jugs with hot water and both hobbits retired to wash and change. When Frodo returned to the kitchen, Bilbo was already making a light snack of bread, cheese and pickles. “I don't think I could eat anything, Uncle.”

“Nonsense, lad. You've done some hard work today, and you're not long out of your sickbed. Come and eat.” He handed over a small glass, containing an inch of amber liquid. “Drink this first.”

Frodo eyed the contents suspiciously. “What is it?”

“You're not strictly old enough but I think we can look the other way, just for today. It's my best brandy.” He slipped a finger beneath the glass to guide it to Frodo's lips. “One big swallow. Go on. It will put some fire back in your belly.”

Trusting to Bilbo's wisdom in such matters Frodo did as instructed, eyes widening as the smooth liquid warmed his throat and landed with a burgeoning glow in his empty stomach. Watching closely, Bilbo nodded. “That's better, lad. You've got some colour back in those cheeks. Now, come and make us some chamomile tea while I set out the plates and cups.”

An hour later the luncheon was consumed, the pots washed, and both hobbits sat at their ease in Bag End's cosy parlour, listening to rain patter against the window panes. Frodo was staring into the fire and Bilbo drew on his pipe for a few minutes before speaking.

“Today was hard on you, lad. Burying the old is one thing, but a child is another matter, isn't it?”

Frodo reached for his hanky, surprised that such a simple question should open the flood gates of his tears. “I kept seeing Marigold. When I left the Gamgee's she was as still as Dilly, and I wondered if I would be helping to bury her tomorrow.”

“Ahhh. I didn't know she'd been that sick. It's no wonder you were hit so hard.” Bilbo waited while his nephew composed himself. “I'm sorry I wasn't more help. I don't know whether I ever told you this but,” he took another deep draw on his pipe, “I was once going to offer for Pansy Goodbody, Berrydown as she was then. As things turned out, it was probably for the best that I was pipped to the post. But I'm sorry I wasn't paying more attention to your needs. Some Uncle I am.”

“It's alright, Bilbo. I understand and I don't blame you. Truly. It was just . . . it reminded me of another time.” Frodo worried at his damp hanky for a few moments before continuing, “I was at my parent's funeral but for years I have tried not to remember it.”

Bilbo nodded, relieved that Frodo had finally come to the heart of his grief. “I remember. You were so still and quiet at the graveside. Not one tear did you shed, until you climbed into my lap and sobbed yourself to sleep later that afternoon.”

Frodo looked up. “Did I? Yes. I think I remember now. The smell of Old Toby and lavender water.” He allowed himself a watery smile. “You have always been there when I needed you most.”

“And I always will be, lad. I always will.” Bilbo leaned forward to lay his hand upon Frodo's. “And if there's one thing I've learned in my long years, it's that this pain will pass. We may lose a few more before it's over, but the Shire will come through. We'll be sad for a time but the laughter will return.”

Frodo offered a smile but wondered, in his heart, whether there would ever come a day when he encountered a pain too great to, “pass”. He could not imagine living forever with the knot of sadness that he felt now.


	35. A Little Tumble

“Careful, lass. Don't ye go breakin' any of my crocks,” Bell chided, as Daisy added another basin to what, in her mother's opinion, was already too large a stack. 

Daisy only grinned as she turned to deposit them upon the kitchen table. “How many years have we been doin' this together, Ma? I aint dropped one yet.”

With a loud sniff, Bell turned back to the sink and her washing of the pans. “There's always a first time, lass. When ye've a smial of your own ye'll pay more mind, I'm thinkin'.”

Daisy paused in her clearing of the shelves. “When will that be, do you think?”

Her mother sniffed again, “That depends on ye and Bartimus, don't it? Or have ye decided to set yer sights on another? Ye were always a fickle one.”

Daisy's, “Ma!” was accompanied by a roll of the eyes that Bell heard, rather than saw.

“Well, it weren't that long ago ye had yer sights set on Master Frodo.” Bell turned to find Daisy still staring into the distance. “And ye haven't finished clearin' those shelves. Spring cleanin' don't do itself and we've Bag End to tackle when we've finished here.”

“I never did consider Frodo,” Daisy announced with some offence. “Anyway, he had his eye on May, not me.”

Bell shuddered. “I don't need ye to remind me. That's one Thrimidge I'll not forget in a hurry. I thought half the village had the Spring Fever. Between ye and May fightin' over Master Frodo, yer Da splittin' his breeches and Ruby Brockbank chasin' every lad that weren't spoken for, and one or two that were, I didn't know which way to turn.”

Daisy grinned. “I wonder if Frodo still writes to our May.”

“It's Master Frodo to you, my lass. I don't ask and she don't tell. And as long as the Water is between them I don't care.” Bell replied as she threw a tea-towel at her daughter.

Daisy snagged it easily from the air but set it down on the table as someone knocked at the door. “Are we expectin' anyone?”

Her mother sighed. “No. But that's no excuse for keepin' whoever it is waitin'.”

Daisy opened the door wide, to reveal a big bunch of wild flowers, behind which was a smiling Bartimus Brockbank. “Hello Daisy. I saw these and I thought of you.”

Daisy adopted her best bored-tweenage expression. “You saw a bunch of wilted weeds and thought of me, did you?”

Knowing that she should not allow her daughter to be so rude, still Bell waited, aware that Bartimus Brockbank was quite capable of defending himself from the cutting edge of her daughter's tongue. At first his face fell. Then his eyes took on a certain gleam. “They're only a down payment, so to speak. We can go into market and buy some pretty daisies. I saw some this mornin', as bright a yellow as that bonny frock your wearin'.”

Daisy looked back at her mother, pleadingly and Bell relented. “Go on with ye. I can manage this job on my own.” When Daisy began to unfasten her apron strings Bell added, “But make sure ye're back to help make the tea. Bartimus can join us if he's a mind to.”

Bartimus answered for himself, only too willing to have more time away from his sister, Ruby. “Thank you, Mistress Gamgee. I'd like that. I'll make sure Daisy's back in time.” He eyed the bunch of flowers, and then Daisy, and the lass took them from him with a flourish, flashing her mother a broad smile as she laid them on the table.

Bell came to the door to watch them stroll down the lane, hand in hand. As they reached the bottom of the hill Daisy leaned in to whisper something to Bartimus, before dragging him off, in the opposite direction to the market. Bell rolled her eyes. “Tweens and trouble,” she muttered as she closed the door.

As she dropped the latch on the front door the back door opened, to admit her two youngest. As always, Marigold looked as though she had been dragged through a hedge, backwards. Her face and hands were grubby, her hair ribbons had obviously fallen out and were at present, stuffed into her pinafore pocket, and she was holding up her skirt to reveal a skinned knee. 

Her older brother looked worried as he steered her to a sit upon the end of one of the benches beside the table. “We were only playin' hop-squares, but she couldn't jump over two at once. I'm sorry, Ma. I should have let her hop in the square.” Whereas Marigold did not seem at all upset about her injury, Sam looked to be upon the verge of tears.

Bell leaned in to examine the damage to her daughter's knee. “This aint too bad. I just needs cleanin' up a bit. Fetch the soft soap and fill me a basin with warm water, Sam lad, and stop yer frettin'.” To Marigold she offered a smile. “Five minutes and it will all be over and ye can play again.”

Marigold bent to examine the damage herself. “It don't hurt,” she announced firmly.

“And that's all to the good, lass. But yer black-bright so a bit of soap and water won't hurt.”

Sam set basin and cup of soft soap on the table at his mother's elbow. “Thank ye. Go fetch a bandage from the medicine box. I've no doubt it will be on the floor within an hour, but we may as well try,” Bell instructed as she began to soap a cloth and dab gently at Marigold's knee. Now the little lass gasped, making to squirm away, but her mother snagged the leg with a skill born of much experience. “Soon be over, Marigold, lass. Soon be over,” Bell crooned as she continued to clean grit from the graze. Moments later Sam returned with a roll of linen and watched as his mother wrapped it neatly over the injury.

Bell stood back to examine her youngest. “Well, lass. Ye look a mess, but then, ye always do. Come on. Let's get yer hands and face washed and hair brushed. Then ye can play inside for a bit.” When Marigold's face began to crumple her Ma tweaked one grubby cheek. “Just so I can keep an eye on that knee. Ye can play with yer dolly until teatime.” 

Sam obliged by pushing Marigold's favourite dolly into his sister's hands. Marigold accepted it with a beaming grin and Bell shook her head. “I'll never know what ye like so much about that doll.” It was one supplied by Frodo some years back, having been given to him by a rather eccentric aunt. Marigold frequently spent hours dressing and undressing the misshapen toy. Bell soaped up the cloth once more and began to scrub at her daughter's hands and face, while Sam fetched Daisy's hairbrush. Five minutes later a slightly cleaner and tidier Marigold was settled beneath the table with her dolly.

“Can I help with the cleanin', Ma?” Sam asked as he surveyed the half empty shelves.

“Aye. Mayhap ye can. Daisy is walkin' out with Barty and if we can get this job finished before tea we can make a start on Bag End tomorrow. Fetch the stool from yer sister's bedroom. Ye should be able to reach the top shelf if ye stand on it, but have a care lad.”

“I won't break any pots, Ma. I promise.”

“Tis not the pots that worrit me. We can replace a plate but a broken leg is another thing,” Bell replied with a grin, ruffling his sandy curls.

Sam ran off to collect the stool and Bell bent to check on her daughter. Marigold had removed the first layer of her doll's clothes and was starting on the second, tongue poked between her teeth as she worried at buttons and ties. Rummaging in her capacious apron pocket, Bell handed Marigold a small wrapped sweetie, touching a finger to her lips. Marigold grinned as she popped it into her mouth and Bell tucked the empty wrapper back in her pocket.

Arriving in the kitchen at a more sedate pace than he left, Sam set down the stool beside the sturdy, floor to ceiling shelves, where all the Gamgee crockery and cooking pots were stored. Sam clambered up easily but his mother stayed him before he could collect the first load. “Just a minute lad. Lets do this carefully. Ye take down the pots and pass them to me. I'll put them on the table. I don't want you clamberin' up and down with yer arms full.”

Sam was an obedient child, long used to helping both his Ma and his Pa. He was just passing down one of the last loads when there was a knock at the door. Bell went to answer. It was Nedes Brockbank. “Hello, Mistress Gamgee. I was wonderin' if Barty was here. Only he promised to take our Ruby to visit her cousin, and he aint been seen since lunch time.”

Bell sighed. “He's taken Daisy out walkin'. Looks like he's forgot about his poor sister.”

Sam could see his Ma's best china flower vase in the far corner of the very top shelf. He considered getting down to move the stool closer but it was not that far away. If he stretched just a bit further his fingertips brushed it. Perhaps if he stood on his very tiptoes and leaned . . . 

“They said they were goin' to market but I saw them turn off into Tom Cotton's fields when they got to the . . .”

Bell spun about and Nede's leaned in when they heard a clatter, followed by the unmistakable sound of fine china smashing on stone flags, and the equally unmistakable sound of flesh and bone making contact with the same surface.

“Sam!” Bell was on her knees at her son's side within a heartbeat, heedless of the shards of china surrounding him.

Nedes followed. “What can I do, Mistress?” 

“Mama?” Marigold scrambled out from beneath the table, naked doll in one hand and freckles standing out against a suddenly very white face.

Bell spared both only a glance. “Go fetch Mister Bilbo, then get my Ham. He's down at Widow Rumble's today.”

The sturdy lad needed no more instruction and was running up the hill almost before Bell finished the last word. She tried to smile at her faunt. “Don't ye worrit, lass. Go back 'neath the table and play with yer dolly.” She had to swallow back bile before continuing. “Sam's goin' to be alright. He's just had a tumble. Like ye had.”

Rather than climb back beneath the table, Marigold stepped closer, however. Her face beginning to crumple into tears. “Sam?”

Bell flung out an arm. “Don't come no closer, lass. Ye'll cut yer feet on all this mess.” Noting an edge of panic in her own voice, Bell took a deep breath. “Help me and yer brother by just stayin' safe 'neath the table, Mari, lass.” Marigold finally complied, hugging her dolly close. Bell forced herself to ignore the little sobs coming from beneath the table. Sam was in more need of her attention at present.

Sam Gamgee was still, and Bell's heart fluttered like a trapped bird before she detected the rise and fall of his small chest. He lived. Now she had to make sure that he stayed that way. Pushing down her fear, Bell ran her hands over ribs and spread-eagled limbs. Panic arose again as she found blood, but closer examination revealed that it was the result of some minor cuts, caused by the smashed vase. When she ran her hands over Sam's skull, however, she found a large knot forming, at the back of his head. Painfully aware of Marigold's wide, tear-filled eyes, Bell gently patted her son's pale cheek, her voice sounding much calmer than she felt within. “Sam? Sam, lad. Come on, now. Tis time to wake up.” 

At that moment Frodo Baggins skidded to a halt just inside the door. “Bilbo is coming. How can I help?”

Bell felt so relieved to see him that she almost gave way to tears. “Can ye help me carry him to his bed? Be careful with yer feet. The floor's all over broken pot.”

Frodo picked his way through the mess with the nimble step of youth, and bent to take Sam's feet as Bell took her son's shoulders. Together they carried him to the small bedroom, which was his alone, now that his older brothers were away from home. By the time they were laying him in the bed Bilbo arrived. “Nedes has gone for Ham.”

Bell did not spare him a glance, concentrating instead upon removing her child's clothing so that she could examine him more closely. “Thank ye, Mister Bilbo. I'm sorry to trouble ye and Master Frodo, but I didn't know who else to send for.”

“Think nothing of it, Bell. Let me help you with that.” He stepped in to take over from Frodo, who was helping Bell settle her son. “Frodo, go and fetch Doctor Brockleby.”

Bell paused in her work. “We can't afford no doctor, Mister Bilbo. I thank ye all the same.”

Bilbo waved away his nephew. “Go, Frodo. I'll pay for the doctor,” he eyed Bell sternly, “And if that does not sit well with Bell and Ham, we shall come to some arrangement.”

Too worried to put up much resistance, Bell nodded. “We'll talk on it later. Can ye watch him for a minute while I fetch water and bandages?” Bilbo nodded. “And see if ye can wake him. I don't like it that he's not awake yet.”

“I will, Bell.” Bilbo settled upon the edge of the straw mattress and began to pat Sam's pale cheek. “Sam? Come on Sam Gamgee. There are pigs to be fed and potatoes to be dug. Your Ma and Da will not be happy that you haven't finished your tasks.”

When Bell returned, her arms laden with supplies, it was to see her son's eyelids flickering, and a relieved cry escaped her lips. “Sam, lad!”

Bilbo gave a tight lipped smile. “Do you hear that, Sam? Your mother needs your help. Tea will be late on the table if you don't wake up.”

It was never clear, later, whether it was the mention of tea, hearing his mother's voice, or Bilbo's cajoling, but Sam's hazel eyes flickered opened at last. Bell settled at the other side of the small bed, setting the basin of water and her supplies at her feet. “That's it, Sam. Open yer eyes for me.”

At first Sam's gaze was rather vague, and he seemed to be having difficulty focussing upon anything for more than a moment, but gradually he seemed to settle. “Ma? Why is Mister Bilbo in my bedroom?”

Both adults grinned. “He's goin' to help me put ye to bed.” Suddenly all business, Bell wrung out a cloth and began dabbing at one of the cuts on Sam's arm. 

Wincing at her touch, Sam eyes were drawn to the source, and they widened as he discovered that he was wearing only his drawers. “Here, what's happenin?” He moved a hand to cover his private area and Bilbo chuckled as he stood, bending to drape a towel modestly over the youngsters hips. 

“Nothin' ye need fret over, my lad. Now hold still while I clean up all this blood. Goodness, but I never knew a vase cause so much mess.” Bell was back in control, bathing and bandaging. “I told ye to have a care, but ye're a lad so ye didn't pay heed.” She reached a slightly deeper cut on Sam's leg. “And this one'll need a stitch. Mercy, lad.”

Suddenly realising the import of his mother's words, tears began to trickle from Sam's eyes. “I'm sorry, Ma. I'll clean up the mess, and I'll save up my pocket money to buy you a new flower vase.”

Bell paused in her gentle attack upon Sam's injuries. “Oh, lad. Don't ye fret. I told ye before that pots aint as important as ye.” When the tears did not stop she gathered him up, into her arms, rocking him like a babe. “Nay, lad. Don't cry. I'm not really angry at ye. Tis just the shock, is all. Hush now.”

Bilbo found a spare blanket folded at the foot of the bed and draped it over mother and child. “He'll be alright, Bell.”

“Well, now. What have we here?” All looked up to see a slightly out of breath Doctor Brockleby, Frodo at his side.

“Ah good. Sam had a bit of a fall and rattled his brains on the kitchen floor,” Bilbo replied for Bell. He retreated from the small room. “I'll leave you and Bell to sort things out.”

By the time Hamfast Gamgee arrived Bilbo was sweeping up the last shards of china and Frodo was sitting in Bell's rocking chair, with Marigold in his lap, playing pat-a-cake. Bilbo gave a reassuring smile. “I think Sam will be alright. Bell's with him and I sent for Doctor Brockleby, just to be sure.”

Ham paused only long enough to nod his thanks, before making for his son's bedroom. Bilbo threw the shards into the bucket, then filled the kettle. “I think we all need a cup of tea. I don't suppose anyone knows where Daisy is? We shall need to wash and put away all these crocks, before the table can be set for afternoon tea.”

Frodo smiled at little Marigold. “Then we'd better help. Marigold can put the pans away on the bottom shelves, and I'll help you wash and put away the crockery.”

Bilbo chuckled. “Well, this will be a first. The Baggins helping the Gamgees with their spring cleaning, instead of the other way around.”

When Ham and Doctor Brockleby returned, the kitchen the table was cleared and Bilbo was filling an assortment of mugs with fresh tea. “Would you like a cup of tea before you leave, Doctor?” he asked. 

The doctor set down his bag and took a seat at the table, while Hamfast Gamgee fetched a jug of milk from the pantry, along with a plate of biscuits. After taking Bell and Sam some tea, he rejoined the others, who were sitting around the table, drinking and munching on the biscuits. 

Bilbo set down his cup first. “So, how is the lad?”

Doctor Brockleby bit into a biscuit, chewing appreciatively before replying. “Samwise is very fortunate. He has a nasty lump on his head and I've put a stitch in one or two of his cuts, but he's got the resilience of youth and should be up and about tomorrow.” He patted Hamfast's large, square hand, where it rested upon the table. “Although I suggest he be spared potato digging duties for two or three days.”

Hamfast's reply was quick and decisive. “He'll not be diggin' taters for a good week, if I've anythin' to do with it . . . and I have.” He took a good mouthful of tea and grimaced before complaining, good-naturedly, “Bilbo Baggins, yer tea could have been pee'd by a gnat.”

Bilbo guffawed. “And yours could be used to paint wood.”

Hamfast grinned. “Tea should be strong. It puts hair on yer feet.”

“Ere, what's goin' on?” All looked up, to find a rather surprised Daisy Gamgee and Bartimus Brocklebank, standing in the open doorway. “Why's the doctor here?”

Bartimus stepped back. “I won't stay for tea, Daisy. Looks like you're not goin' to be wantin' guests.”

It was Doctor Brockleby who spoke up. “That's a good idea, Bartimus. And your brother is looking for you. When I met him down the hill, he said something about you promising your sister a visit to her cousin.”

Bartimus' eyes widened. “Oh heck! I forgot.”

Daisy shooed him out. “Go on. I'll tell you what's up tomorrow. Go. Or Ruby'll never let you hear the end of it.” She shut the door in the poor lad's face then turned back to her da. “Who's hurt, Da? Is it Ma?”

Hamfast stood to gather in his daughter. “No lass. It's little Sam. He had a bit of a fall and your Ma is sittin' with him.” When Daisy would have broken free to run to the bedrooms he held her. “He's alright, lass. Just got his brains a bit shook up, is all. The doctor says he's not to go to sleep for a few hours and one of us should stay with him 'til mornin'. Your Ma is takin' the first watch.”

“Can I see him?” Daisy asked quietly.

“Come on, lass.” Hamfast steered his daughter to the bedroom.

“Well. I've done all I can here, and I promised to visit Arty Sedgebury this afternoon.” Doctor Brockleby stood, jamming his hat upon his head at a jaunty angle and gathering up his bag. “It's fortunate I did, for I was half way here when Frodo found me.” 

Bilbo stood to escort him to the door. “Thank you for coming so quickly. Pop up to Bag End tomorrow, and we'll sort out payment for this visit.”

Doctor Brockleby nodded understanding. “I will. Although I usually let my less affluent patients pay me as they can.”

“Nonetheless. Come to Bag End,” Bilbo asserted, firmly.

When the doctor was gone Bilbo leaned back against the closed door and let out a large sigh. From his place at the table, where he was wiping crumbs from Marigold's face, Frodo smiled. 

Bilbo grinned back. “I don't know about you, but I fancy something more substantial than biscuits. Let's see what Bell has in her pantry. We can make afternoon tea for the family and then bow out to make our own.”

When Daisy and Bell came out from Sam's room, leaving Hamfast to take his turn at his son's bedside, it was to find the table set for tea, with tomato sandwiches, scones and a fresh pot of tea.

Bilbo beckoned them to sit. “I didn't know what you were anticipating for tea, but if we've over done it, we can bring you some more scones, later.”

Bell lifted Marigold from Frodo's arms, holding her close even as she smiled gratefully at the lad. “Thank ye, sirs. I don't know what we'd have done without ye this afternoon.” She looked about the room in a dawning surprise. “Ye've put away all my crocks! And they're clean.”

“It was the least we could do to help, Bell,” Bilbo assured her. “And don't worry about coming to Bag End tomorrow. We can manage our own spring cleaning this year. The exercise will do us good.”

“No, sir. I wouldn't hear of it. Daisy and me will be there straight after second breakfast. Clover was goin' to come watch Marigold anyhow. I don't think she'll mind watchin' Sam as well.”

Bilbo frowned. “Are you sure? We really don't mind beating a few rugs ourselves.”

Bell pursed her lips. “There's more to a good spring clean than beatin' a few rugs, if it's to be done right,” she asserted.

Bilbo took Frodo's elbow and steered him toward the door. “Then, we'll see you at Bag End after second breakfast, as always.”

“Yes, sir.” Bell accompanied them to the door, adding, “And we'll talk about that doctor's bill too.”

Once the yellow door was closed Frodo chuckled. “Am I awful to want to be a fly on the wall during that conversation?”

-0-

The following morning was one of those spring days that seems determined to hold on to winter's fraying coat tails. Rain had started some time during the night and had been falling steadily for hours. Still, at half past nine, there was a knock at the kitchen door and Frodo opened it to admit Daisy and Bell Gamgee.

“Come in. Let me take your cloaks. Goodness, did you get this wet just walking up from Number Three?” He placed a couple of ladder-back chairs by the fire and draped a cloak over the back of each.

Bell and Daisy set down their boxes of cleaning stuffs, patted hair into place and shook out aprons. “We did that,” Bell answered. “Tis a filthy day.”

Bilbo wondered in at that moment, pipe in one hand and empty mug in the other. “Hello ladies. Frodo and I were going to go for a walk, but I'm afraid the weather is not co-operating with our plans.”

Frodo took the mug from him and added it to the washing up in the kitchen sink. “How is Sam this morning?” he asked as he began to wash. Daisy took up a tea towel and set to, drying for him. Not so long ago Frodo would have felt uncomfortable in her presence, for Daisy had spent years teasing him. But they had recently reached an accommodation that left them more like brother and sister.

“He's much better, thank ye, Mister Bilbo. And I was wonderin' if I could have a word with ye, in private?” Bell asked.

Bilbo smiled. “Of course. Come into the parlour.” Frodo watched them leave, a little annoyed that he would not be a fly on the wall, after all.

Bell followed Mister Baggins down the hallway and into the cosy room, but declined to take a seat. In deference to her choice Bilbo also remained standing. “Out with it, Bell.”

“Well. It were good of ye to send for the doctor yesterday, but it don't sit right with me and Ham that ye should pay.”

“I know that you would not have incurred the expense, had I not insisted upon it, so it seems only proper that I be the one to pay Doctor Brockleby.”

“I don't deny that his visit put my mind at rest.” Bell glanced about the comfortably appointed room, with it's oak panelled walls, richly coloured wool rugs and deeply padded arm chairs. “But we Gamgees have always tried to pay our way. So me and Ham have decided.”

Bilbo grinned, drawing upon his pipe and releasing a stream of scented smoke. “And what have you decided?”

“Yesterday, Master Frodo and ye finished the spring clean at Number Three, and didn't ask no payment for it. So our family's got together and decided we won't take no payment for cleanin' Bag End this spring.” Bell met Bilbo's eyes squarely, leaving him in no doubt that she would accept no argument upon the matter.

A spark of amusement lit Bilbo's sharp blue gaze, however. “But Bell, all we did was put away a few crocks. We could hardly accept the cleaning of the entirety of Bag End in return. That doesn't seem fair.”

Much to his further amusement, Bell folded arms across her expansive frontage. “Bag End may be bigger, but there's more of us to muck in. Ham can't do no gardenin' in this weather and even Marigold can help with the fetchin' and carryin'.” She nodded toward the window, where rain was spattering relentlessly. “And in this weather we can't tackle the big jobs, like windows and carpets.”

Bilbo pursed his lips, pretending to consider. In truth, he had anticipated this offer. “I don't know, Bell. I'm not unaware that you and Ham rely on this money to feed your family. As you so ably pointed out, Ham can't garden in this weather.”

“Tis only a day's wages. We can tighten belts for a day,” Bell announced, stoutly.

Bilbo sighed. “Very well, but upon two conditions.”

Bell looked uncomfortable. “That depends on the conditions.”

“That you allow Frodo and me to lend a hand, and that you and your family share meals with us today. We can even send down a couple of plates to Sam and Clover at number three. My pantry will easily support the extra mouths.”

Bilbo may as well have announced that Lobelia Sackville-Baggins be allowed to muck out the pigsty. Bell's mouth opened and closed a couple of times, but no words issued forth.

Bilbo chuckled. “Frodo and I had been intending to walk to Bywater today. It's some time since we visited my sister, Dora, but this weather has put paid to that idea. It is a circumstance for which I am not entirely sorry, but it leaves Frodo and me rather under foot, as it were. It makes sense that we all work together today, otherwise you will only be chasing us from room to room. And eating here will save all of you having to traipse down the hill and back.”

Bell was practical enough to acknowledge the sense of that statement, and she was never so proud that she would turn down food for her bairns. “Ye could still be under foot,” she announced with a sniff, but she unfolded her arms, ostensibly to straighten an imaginary crease in her spotless apron. “But it do make sense to give ye a job to do. Leastways, then I'll know where ye are.”

The master of Bag End swallowed a grin. “I agree, Bell. I would never wish to be a nuisance when you are working.”

Bell sent him a glance that left Bilbo in no doubt that she was aware of his amusement. “Let's go back to the kitchen, then, and sort out who's goin' to do what. Master Frodo has a strong back. Mayhap he could help Ham to move furniture.”

Bilbo followed in her wake, a tender to her galleon in full sail.


	36. Frodo and the Fecund Fern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to Frodo_Baggins_Of_Bag_End for the beta

Sam accompanied his Da up the hill to Bag End. As they approached they could hear singing coming from the open parlour window.

“That sounds like Master Frodo,” Sam announced.

“Is it now? Well, I never knew he could carry a tune so well. He's been hidin' his light 'neath a basket, and should stand up at the Ivy Bush of an evenin'.” Ham winked down at his son. “Anyone who could spare us from Old Filo's efforts is always welcome to jump on a table and give us a song.”

Sam giggled as his Da reached out to ring the bell. The bright tinkle had the effect of stopping the singing in its tracks, and the resulting silence was broken by the slap of feet on tile. Frodo opened the door, smiling when he recognised his visitors.

“Hello Mister Gamgee, Sam. Do come in. I was just drying the last of the breakfast pots. Would you like a cup of tea?”

The two Gamgee's remained at the door, however. “If you don't mind, young Master, we would as soon meet you on the hill. I'm afraid time is tight and I've only an hour afore Sam and me have to make off for the Sackville-Bagginses.” 

“Of course. Forgive me. My time is so often my own that I forget others are not so blessed.” Frodo threw his tea-towel aside at once and stepped out to join them, leading the way up the side of Bag-End's steep side garden and onto the grassy roof. When they arrived beneath the ancient oak upon the hill's crown, he turned to enquire, “Are you sure that I have the skills required, though? We had no Thrimidge Prancers in Buckland.”

Ham snorted. “The way you steer the lasses about at the Harvest Reel I've no doubt you'll master Prancin'. 'Tis not much different to a line dance when all's said and done.” He collected a small linen drawstring bag from Sam, handing it over to Frodo. “Here's your ribbons and bells to be goin' on with. Have you got white breeches?”

Frodo opened the bag and drew out two shields of round bells, with ribbon ties and two arm garters, which fluttered with brightly coloured ribbons. “Mister Bentwhistle says they should arrive within the week. He has my measurements.”

“Well, if they don't arrive in time for Thrimidge Day you'll have to borrow some of my old ones. My Bell can probably bring 'em in and you can pull 'em in a bit more with the sash.” Frodo had just discovered that at the bottom of the bag.

Brow furrowing with some scepticism at the idea that breeches made to fit Ham's ample girth would in any way come close to fitting Frodo's slender tweenage frame, Frodo set the small bag aside. “I'm certain Mister Bentwhistle will not let me down.”

Hearing some discomfort in Frodo's voice, Ham chuckled. “Well, the offer's there. I'll never get into 'em again, that's for certain sure.” He became all business. “Now. Come stand in front of me and we'll start with the timin' step. Sam lad, clap us a beat if you will.”

Sam settled, cross legged, on the sweet grass and began to clap a steady rhythm. Ham demonstrated the step. “Tis just a sort of skip on the spot. You don't never stand still when your prancin', 'cept at the beginnin' and the end.”

As Ham knew he would, Frodo picked it up at once. “Good, Master Frodo. I told you it would be easy for you. Now skip toward me for four steps. 'Tis the same step, only you move forward a bit with each skip.”

Frodo obliged and the two met. “Now four back. That's it. The main thing you got to remember is to stay in perfect time with the rest of the side. The bells on your legs will soon let you know if you're not right and 'twill sound awful.”

Arriving back at his starting point, Frodo listened carefully to Sam's persistent rhythm as Ham instructed, “Now, come forward again and make as if you have a stick that you're going to hit against mine. Right hand.”

Once more, Frodo met his tutor, lifting his arm to strike an imaginary stick, held aloft by Ham. “When do we get to practice with the sticks?” he asked as Ham waved him back. The two continued to skip in place and Frodo began to understand why the sturdier built Hamfast got so out of breath.

“Tom Buckleby is still carvin' yours. Each stick is made just for the dancer. They don't get passed on, unless it be in the family.” Ham chuckled. “And I want to know you know what you’re doin', afore I let you loose with one near my knuckles. Now this time, when you come forward, we skip round each other to the four beat, and back to place.”

When Frodo got back to his starting position, he turned to find that Ham was in place before him. Ham grinned. “Don't worry, lad. Tis usual to get it wrong the first few times. You skipped to five when you turned in place at the end. You've got to skip three and use the last one to turn. Let's try it again.”

An hour later, a rather sweaty Frodo dragged himself into Bag End's kitchen. Bilbo looked up from where he was stirring soup on the hob. He chuckled, waving a mocking hand before his nose. “Phew. You'd best get a wash before you do anything else.”

Frodo complied all too willingly, filling a ewer from the boiler. “I think I need to do less reading and more walking. How Master Gamgee managed it all these years I can't imagine.”

Bilbo tasted the soup and added a good pinch of salt to the pan. “Ham's waist has got broader of late, but gardening keeps his muscles in good order. Prancing is hard work at first, but you'll soon get used to it.”

Frodo set his ewer upon the table, beside the small linen bag. “Were you ever a prancer, Bilbo? You've never mentioned it.”

His uncle paused in his stirring, his gaze growing wistful. “Oh yes. I still have the stick somewhere, I think. Unless it went missing when they tried to sell off my home.”

“You are a hobbit of many secrets, Bilbo Baggins. I'd love to see it, if you ever find it.” Frodo took up his water jug. “But for now I need a good wash and a set of clean clothes, or I shall put us both off our tea.”

That evening Hamfast joined his wife by the fire. Daisy sat at the table, showing Marigold how to sew on a button, while Sam worked on his latest letter to May.

“How did Master Frodo's first prancin' lesson go?” Bell asked, as she picked at a knot in the wool she was unravelling from one of Ham's old jumpers. Ham had no doubt the wool would be seen in a jumper for Sam next winter.

“As well as I expected it would. He's a good sense of the dance, and once he's toughened up a bit, he'll manage well enough.” Ham grinned as he sent her a wink across the hearth. “He didn't seem too keen on borrowin' my old breeches, though. Ordered some from Mister Bilbo's fancy tailor in Michel Delvin' instead.”

Bell sniffed at the airs and graces of gentlehobbits. “Just so long as that Bent Bristle, or whatever his name is, don't go changin' the pattern to suit whatever the fashion is in Michel Delvin'. We don't want no lace nor fancy doodads on 'em.”

Ham chuckled as he filled his pipe and set a taper to it, pausing to draw once or twice before continuing the conversation. “Don't you worry, Bell, lass. He may be a tween, but he's got a better head on him than most . . . most of the time.”

Bell ignored the rider.

-0-

“Hello, Fern.” Frodo waved a cheery greeting to Fern Sandyman as he strode down the road, on his way to Prancing practice at the Ivy Bush. So intent was he upon his destination that it was only as he was several steps beyond the girl that her tear-stained face registered. He stopped and turned back. “Fern, are you all right?”

Fern was seated upon a battered wicker case and looked as though the weight of the entire world was draped about her shoulders. At Frodo's enquiry she only dropped her head, burying a sob in her already soaked handkerchief.

Perplexed, Frodo tried again. “Have you been visiting relatives? Is somebody sick? Should I fetch your mother?”

Her only response was a wailed, “Noooo!”.

Frodo knew little about the Sandyman family. Although Ted seemed to have his nose in everyone else's business, the miller kept his own close to his chest. Fern's response told the lad more than he needed to know about the situation in the Sandyman household. “Were you going somewhere? Maybe I could carry your case. Are you heading home?”

Fern finally forced out some words, between sobs. “I can't go home. Da threw me out.”

That decided Frodo. This was obviously something serious, probably something best sorted by a mother. If Fern's own mother was not willing to do so, he knew of one whose heart would not reject another in trouble. He bent to offer her a hand up. “Come on, then. You can't stay here. The Gamgees’ smial is just a step up the hill, and Mistress Gamgee always has the kettle on the hob.”

When Fern looked up, taking his hand, the hope in her eyes cut to Frodo's heart. He seriously hoped that Bell Gamgee would be able to help, for he felt more than a little out of his depth when it came to sobbing lasses.

Five minutes later, Fern's case in hand, Frodo was knocking at the round yellow door of Number Three, Bagshot Row. Fortunately, it was Bell who answered. Frodo smiled, a little apologetically. “I found Fern crying at the roadside and didn't know what to do. She says her father has thrown her out.”

Bells lips thinned, then she gathered the girl into her side. “Come in, both of ye.”

Frodo had to confess to himself that he would rather have left the matter to Bell Gamgee, but good manners dictated that if he was going lay a problem at another's' door, he should not walk away now. Bell took charge at once.

“Sam, take yer sister out to play for a while. I'll call ye when I've settled up here. If ye need aught, go ask Mistress Mugwort.” Having cleared the kitchen, she concentrated upon Fern. “Come, sit by the fire, lass. I know tis a warm day but yer shakin' like a leaf. Can I trouble ye to make a pot of tea, Master Frodo? Ye know where everythin' is kept.”

“Of course.” Frodo set to, relieved to be spared trying to sort out Fern's problems himself. As a male and a tween he felt woefully inadequate when dealing with emotions. Nonetheless, he kept one ear keenly tuned to the conversation between Bell and Fern.

“Now, lass. Do ye want to tell me what's the matter, or would ye rather it were just we two?”

Frodo turned from the hob in time to see several thoughts flicker across Fern's face. What those thoughts were, he could not discern, but something about them made him feel a little uncomfortable. Now Fern spoke, her voice rough from crying. “Tis alright. Frodo should know.”

Bell frowned at the omission of Master Baggins’ honorific, but only settled Fern in a chair by the hearth before taking her own, opposite. Between them, Frodo lifted the kettle and poured water into the large brown teapot upon the kitchen table. There was a period of silence, broken only by the tinkle of a teaspoon or the pouring of tea. Finally, Frodo handed mugs to Bell and Fern, taking one for himself and settling upon one of the benches by the table. 

Once Fern had taken a swallow, Bell spoke. “Right, lass. Let's have it. I think I can guess, but why don't ye tell me why yer Da has thrown ye out of home?”

Once more, Frodo caught a glimmer of something in Fern's red rimmed eyes, but if Bell saw it she said nothing. At last, the lass spoke. “Ma says I'm expectin',” she announced baldly.

Bell nodded, unphased. “I thought t'would be that. How far along?”

Fern shook her head. “I don't know.” She glanced aside at Frodo, a slight blush colouring her cheeks. “Tis two month since my last courses.”

Frodo took a hasty swallow of his tea, harbouring the perhaps unkind thought that he should have walked past Fern without stopping. Saradoc had explained about the birds and the bees before Frodo left Brandy Hall, saying that he did not expect Bilbo Baggins to have the sense to do so. He had been wrong. One thing both Saradoc and Bilbo had impressed upon him was that getting a girl pregnant, out of wedlock, was not the act of a gentlehobbit, so Frodo's experimentation, like that of most tweens he knew, had stopped far short of consummation. Discussing it openly was, therefore, a little embarrassing.

Bell cast a sympathetic glance his way before returning her attention to Fern. “Have ye been to see Aster Tunnelly?”

Fern's eyes widened. “Da said if I did he'd whip me. He says I'm not to be seen visitin' the midwife.”

Bell snorted. “Yer Da's a fool, and I hope ye'll forgive me for sayin' so. Aster will tell ye whether ye are or ye aren't. If ye are, ye'll need help and if ye aren't, ye can go home.” She sniffed. “Although I pity anyone havin' to live under Ted Sandyman's roof.”

It was telling that Fern did not immediately leap to her father's defence. “Do you really think I might not be expectin'?”

Bell's homely face filled with compassion. “I don't know, lass. Have ye been over-tired of late? Sick in the mornin'? More important, have ye been with a lad?”

Fern dropped her gaze to her mug of tea. “Da took a switch to me because I fell asleep and let the stew burn. And I ain’t been able to keep down breakfast for a week or two.”

Bell nodded. “And the lad?”

With Fern's downcast face, Frodo felt, rather than actually saw, her eyes flick his way. “Well . . . I don't like to say.”

“Nonsense, lass. He needs to take his share of the responsibility. For as long as I recall, it's taken two to make a bairn.”

Fern turned tearful eyes full upon Frodo now. “I'm sorry, Frodo. But I can't bring up a bairn on my own. I didn't want to tell.”

At that moment, had one of Gandalf the wizard's fireworks gone off, right outside the door to Number Three, it is doubtful that any of the occupants would have acknowledged it. Frodo blinked and Bell Gamgee's mouth dropped open. After what seemed like an age, Frodo tried to speak.

“Wha … How . . . We never . . .”

Bell Gamgee was the first to recover her wits fully and now her eyes narrowed upon Fern Sandyman. “Are ye tryin' to tell me that Master Frodo Baggins is the father of yer bairn?”

Fern would not meet her gaze, only chewing on her lip before nodding.

Frodo leapt to his feet, feeling both betrayed and angry. “Fern. We have never done . . . I have always promised Bilbo that I would not bring such shame on the Baggins name. How can you say this?”

Now Fern's face grew mutinous, her voice rising. “It were you! And now I'm thrown out of home because of it. What's to become of me?”

Faced with such certainty, Frodo tried to appeal to Bell. “Mistress Gamgee, you know me. I would never get a lass with child. I'm not even of age yet. You can't believe her.”

Bell studied him for a moment. “Sit down, lad. I don't want to believe it of ye, but tweens sometimes get carried away. I'm not so old that I don't remember that. Are ye certain?”

“Absolutely. I danced with Fern just once, at the Harvest Reel.” He directed his frowning face at Fern. “And we were in public view all the time.”

Fern wailed anew, dabbing at her eyes as fresh tears fell. “But what about all them times in the loft of the Ivy Bush, when you came to market? You said I were the prettiest lass you'd ever seen.” She turned pleading eyes upon Bell. “I didn't want to do it at first, cause it hurt, but he were so gentle, and after a few times . . . I sort of . . . got a taste for it.”

Frodo leapt to his feet once more, unable to remain still under such blatant untruth. “Fern Sandyman, you're lying! I don't know why, but you are.”

Bell sighed. “Alright. Ye're both under age so this is a matter to be sorted by yer elders. Is Mister Bilbo at home this mornin', Master Frodo?”

Feeling more than a little betrayed that Bell was not openly taking his part, Frodo grabbed at the possibility of an ally. “I left him in his study. He was intending to stay at home all day.”

Bell stood, reaching out to draw a reluctant Fern to her feet. “Come on, then. Tis time to bring this to yer uncle.”

So it was that ten minutes later, a confused Bilbo Baggins was ushering them all into Bag End's capacious parlour. Even as she settled into the well padded couch, Fern's eyes were everywhere, taking in the large room with its fine furnishings, and Frodo began to understand. When he caught Bell's eye he saw the same comprehension there, and began to feel a wee bit better.

“Is this true, Frodo?” Bilbo asked, having been briefly appraised of the situation.

Frodo bristled. “How can you ask that, Uncle? Of course it's not true!”

Bilbo waved the lad down when Frodo made to jump to his feet once more. “Steady, lad. I have to ask.” He frowned down at Fern, who was avoiding his gaze and worrying at the rather damp hanky in her hands. “I believe you, but it's your word against Fern's, and both carry equal weight to anyone who doesn't know you as well as I.”

Frodo sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “What can I say to convince you? Fern, why are you doing this to me?”

Fern continued to worry at her hanky and would not meet his gaze. “A lass shouldn't be left to raise a bairn on her own, Frodo. It's like Mistress Gamgee says, 'It takes two'.”

Bell frowned. “Aye. But which two?” When Fern would have protested, Bell waved her into silence. “I think we need to speak to your family too.”

Now Fern looked up in alarm. “Da won't like that. He says 'tis all my fault. He won't talk to no-one about this.” Her face crumpled into a fresh round of crying. “He says I ain’t family no more.”

Bell fished in her bulging apron pocket and handed over a clean hanky.

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “Nonetheless, as both parties are under-age, it falls to us elders to sort this out. Bell, do you think Ham would be available to ask Ted to visit me?”

“He should be home for his lunch soon. I reckon he could do that. I'd send Sam, but I don't reckon Ted Sandyman would pay him much heed.” 

“Until then, we need to decide what to do with Fern. I don't think it would be proper for her to stay at Bag End,” Bilbo noted with a nod to Frodo, who was biting his tongue.

Bell patted Fern's hand. “She can stay with us until things is sorted, one way or t'other. There's room, now May's away from home.”

“Will Ham be alright with that?”

“Ham may not believe the lass, but he'll not see her sleepin' in a hedgerow, neither.”

Fern spoke up again, her face stubborn. “I won't go where I ain’t believed.”

Bell snorted. “Then it's the hedgerow, is it? For I tell ye now, lass . . . the more I think on this, the more I'm thinkin' ye've seen a chance and decided to take it. But there's bed and food for the takin' at my home while we sort this out, if yer pride will stand it. Tis up to ye.”

Fern spent several moments chewing her lip, eyes roving a little covetously about the well appointed room. “Alright. But I don't reckon you'll get my Da to speak to you.”

“Ye leave that to my Ham.” Bell stood. “Come on, then. Ye can pay for yer keep by helpin' me make the lunch.” With that she herded the girl out of the smial and down the hill.

Frodo dropped into a chair as soon as the door closed. “You do believe me, don't you, Bilbo? I would never do that to a lass.”

Bilbo patted his shoulder. “I believe you, Frodo, lad. I don't know who Fern Sandyman has been tupping with, but I think Bell has the right of it. You happened along at the right moment, and Fern saw an opportunity to turn a miss-step into a step-up. I don't know which lad has been misbehaving, but it looks as though it's not a love match, at the least from her side, if she can throw him off so easily.”

“Throw him off?”

Bilbo sighed. “Frodo. I thought we'd taught you better than that. The lad deserves to know that he has a child and Fern is wrong to deny him the opportunity to be a father, even if not a husband.”

“What if he doesn't want to be a father?”

“Whether he wants it or not, he has a child. He must either marry the lass, or at the very least provide coin for the child's upbringing,” Bilbo asserted firmly. “Fern needs to put a roof over the head of her babe and food on the table. She can't work and look after the child. Unless, of course, Ted Sandyman takes back both mother and babe.”

Frodo scowled. “I doubt there's much chance of that happening.”

“We shall see.”

Evening was well advanced before a knock came at Bag End's door and Frodo's nerves were, by then, stretched tighter than a drum. It was Bilbo who answered, however, ushering Bell, Fern and Ted Sandyman into the parlour. Although Fern kept glancing at her father, Ted stood as far from her as was physically possible in the space available, and looked anywhere but at his daughter.

“Well now. Why don't we all sit down? Would anyone care for tea?” Bilbo asked in a voice that, to Frodo's ears, sounded overly bright.

Ted scowled at an armchair, before lowering himself into it and folding his arms. “Let's get this done with.”

The rest disposed themselves between chairs and couch. There was a long silence until, finally, Bell spoke up. “I'll start this off, then. I hope nobody minds that I took it on myself, but I decided we'd best be sure there was somethin' to talk about, afore words started flyin'. I took Fern to see Aster Tunnelly this afternoon.” All but Fern's eyes turned to Bell, with varying degrees of hope. She let them down. “Aster says 'tis sure. Fern is with child.”

Ted's scowl returned. “Don't suppose she happened to say who's?”

Bell's reply was sharp. “Aster's good, but she ain’t that good, Ted.”

“Then we'll have to take the chit's word for it, won't we? Not that it's aught to do with me. She's no kin of mine any more.”

Frodo's surprise had long since turned to anger, and that anger had been simmering all afternoon. “I am not the father of Fern Sandyman's child!”

Ted's smug expression turned to an open leer as he leaned back in his chair. “Just what I'd expect to hear from a bloody Baggins. It's the word of the high and mighty Baggins family against the poor miller's lass!”

Bell Gamgee could not hold her peace against such an accusation. “From what I see of your family, Ted Sandyman, there's not a lot that's poor about it, unless it be in manners. That mill or yours turns a pretty penny.”

“I should have known you'd be against my lass. You Gamgees have always been in the Baggins family pocket,” Ted retorted.

“Oh. She is yer daughter, then? I was told ye'd disowned her. Thrown her out to live under a hedge.” Bell's eyes blazed with barely contained anger. “And I'd like to hear what her mother has to say about that.”

Ted's face took on the hue of a ripe plum. “Her mother says what I tell her to say. It's a shame your husband don't keep a tighter leash on your tongue, Bell Gamgee!”

Bell was just inhaling for a retort when Bilbo shot to his feet. “Enough! All these accusations are getting us nowhere. There's a child and a young mother to be fed and housed.” All settled down to a simmer, and Bilbo resumed his chair. 

“You Baggins' have got enough coin to see them right. I don't see what the fuss is about,” Ted announced.

“The fuss is about me not being the father.” Frodo tried in vain to catch Fern's eye, but the lass seemed to be making a detailed study of the carpet at her feet.

“Well, you would say that. Prove it,” Ted crowed.

“You know very well that I can't,” Frodo replied. No longer able to contain himself he jumped to his feet, striding to the widow to put his back to the room.

Bilbo suddenly inhaled. “Perhaps we can.” Frodo turned about and now all eyes were riveted upon his uncle. “Although I'm afraid we may have to be a little indelicate.” Everyone waited expectantly for him to continue. “Fern, I am afraid that I must now ask you a rather indecorous question. You say that you and Frodo have . . . ahem . . . engaged in relations upon several occasions?”

Fern glanced toward her father, who pretended a sudden interest in a picture hanging above the fireplace. When no clarification came from that quarter she straightened her back. “If 'relations' means tuppin', we have. Even though I didn't want to at first. But he wouldn't take no and . . .” 

Bilbo lifted a hand to stem the tide of extraneous information. “Don't dig yourself in too deeply, Fern. May I assume that you have seen all of Frodo's body, then?” He winked at Bell, who settled back to see where this was going.

Frodo turned in time to see Fern offer a pert and slightly insolent smile. “I have. Tis a nice body, too. Even if he is a bit skinny.”

Bilbo grinned back. “He's got his mother's looks, I think.” Then his features sobered. “But can I assume that he's been fully naked in your presence at some point?”

Fern's smile faltered. “Yes … I mean ... no. It was cold in the loft.”

Bilbo offered his nephew a reassuring nod before continuing. “But I imagine, during the course of your many liaisons, there was at least one part of Frodo that you saw with some regularity?”

Now Fern's shifted in her seat, and she chewed upon her bottom lip for a moment, clearly worried about where this was leading. “I weren't too interested in lookin' at all of him, if you get my meanin'?” she finally announced, a little cautiously.

“Ah yes. I remember the passions of youth,” Bilbo replied with a wistful sigh. “Just where were you looking, if I may venture to ask so personal a question?”

Fern now offered a wide grin. “Where else would a lass be lookin', when she's faced with a strong lad, about to have his way with her?”

Bilbo's own smile held all the warmth of a tiger about to pounce. “I imagine your attention was held below his waist. Did you notice anything unusual there?”

Now Ted leaned forward. “'Ere! Are you saying my lass has been with enough lads to know when somethin's not right? She was as pure as driven snow 'til your nephew got hold of her!”

Bilbo scoffed. “Oh, come now, Ted. We're country folk. We've all seen enough animals getting on with the business of life, to know what should go where and what things should look like. Generally speaking it's only a matter of scale. Add to that the fact that most tweens have sense enough not to go too far, but generally all have done a bit of exploring along the way. Ask a tween, lad or lass, to draw the male member, and I think most could provide a fair rendition.”

Ted subsided and Frodo could feel the blood rising to his face. Fern was also blushing. Bilbo graced Frodo with an apologetic look. “Fern. Did you notice anything different regarding Frodo's . . . ahem . . . member?”

“Member?” Fern asked in confusion.

Ted sighed, rolling his eyes. “His stick, lass. His stick. Grief. I should have disowned her long afore now. She's all the sense of a headless chicken. Gets it from her mother's side.”

Fern's blush deepened. “It looked pretty much like everyone else's I suppose,” she replied slowly. 

“Nothing unusual in shape or colouring, then?” Bilbo persisted, as Frodo turned as red as a beet.

Fern, on the other hand, had gone from pink to white within the space of that question. “I . . . erm . . . it were a bit longer than usual . . . I think.” Under other circumstances Frodo would have been flattered.

“But otherwise, nothing unusual?” Bilbo persisted.

Once more, Fern chewed her lip before replying, a little uncertain now, “No.”

Bilbo nodded. “Fern, may I ask you to join Bell in the kitchen for a moment?”

“Why?”

“I think we have embarrassed Frodo enough. If he has to bare a portion of his anatomy for inspection, I think he would prefer not to do so within the presence of two females. And, Fern,” Bilbo frowned at the girl as she arose. “I suggest you use this opportunity to reconsider your accusations against my nephew.”

Fern bridled, turning to Bell for support. “Is he calling me a liar again?”

Bilbo seemed in no mood to give any quarter. “Oh, I know you are a liar, Fern. But I can understand why, I think. Thrown out of a comfortable home, I imagine Bag End looks like a good alternative. But I don't think you would have been happy here, in the end. Now, go with Mistress Gamgee. Perhaps she can help you, where I cannot.” 

When Fern looked as though she would protest further, Bell just spun her about and shooed her from the room. Fern scuttled off to the kitchen, followed by the bemused Bell.

Ted Sandyman narrowed his eyes. “What do you know, Bilbo Baggins? I hope you ain’t been doin' stuff an uncle shouldn't.”

Now it was Bilbo's turn to appear scandalised and he did it well. “How dare you imply such a thing! I only know because I was told by the lad's father when Frodo was born, that he has inherited the Baggins family birthmark.” He lifted enquiring brows at his nephew and Frodo gave a minute nod. His uncle continued. “Do we really need an unveiling, or will you accept my word?”

Ted stood and for a moment Frodo thought he may actually insist upon the examination. “I'll take your word, for the lad's sake. Although why I should, I'll never know.”

Frodo released a long sigh and Bilbo continued, “The birthmark always occurs in the same place, a place that would have been very visible to Fern, had Frodo been engaging in the activities necessary to conceive a child.”

Ted Sandyman grinned and Frodo could almost see him filing away that bit of information for future humiliation. “Is that so?” He climbed to his feet, brushing a non-existent speck of dust from his lapel. “That's it, then,” he announced, with all the concern of someone who had just been told that Tuesday followed Monday. “I'll be off home. My missus will be thinkin' you've locked me up and thrown away the key.”

Bilbo stepped in front of him. “Not so fast. You cannot just go throwing away your daughter, like chaff in the wind.”

“I'll thank you not to go stickin' your nose in my business, Bilbo Baggins, esquire. And you've just proved it ain’t got nothin' to do with you.”

“The fate of a young girl and her child is the business of any caring member of this society,” Bilbo avowed with some heat. “If you are not prepared to keep the lass at your home, at least take action to discover the father, or provide some kind of support for her yourself. She is young and she is frightened. Why else would she make the accusation she has?” Bilbo's voice softened. “Show some pity. Fern is your flesh and blood after all. Have you never made a mistake, Ted?”

Ted studied his toes for a moment, and for the first time since walking through the door, Bilbo saw a glimmer of love. “Damn you, Bilbo. Alright. Get her things and I'll take her home. But I'll find the lad responsible, if I have to shake it out of her.”

“Please don't do that.” Frodo pleaded. “She's very frightened, and once she starts to . . . to show, the lad will probably come forward anyway.”

“Alright, alright. All this didn't sit right with her mother anyways.”

Frodo smiled. “I'll go and fetch her. I think her belongings are at the Gamgee's smial.”

That same evening Bilbo and Frodo sat before the fire in the parlour. Bilbo was smoking his pipe and the sweet smell of Old Toby drifted in the air. For the first time all day, Frodo felt himself relaxing and he lifted a book from the table at his side.

“Feeling a bit better, lad?”

He looked up to find Bilbo smiling kindly at him. “Yes. Bilbo, I was so scared. I will probably marry one day but I want to be with a lass that I love.”

“I know, lad. Lots of folk make a go of it but love oils the wheels.”

“I want a marriage like my parents, or the Gamgees.” He paused before adding, “Well . . . maybe with not as many children as the Gamgees.”

Bilbo chuckled. “You don't get to choose the number of children, lad. We're not elves. And children are a natural result of loving.”

Frodo could feel himself colouring again. “Bilbo, did my father really tell you about the birthmark?”

“No. But I watched Primula bath you when you were but a few weeks old.”

“Oh. I'm glad you did.”

“I'll always watch over you, lad.” Bilbo opened his own book and soon the only sounds within the room were the crackle of the fire and the turning of pages.

-0-

Frodo threw himself down on the blanket, accepting a clap on the back from Hamfast Gamgee. “Well done, Master Frodo. You only got one turn wrong and that's not bad for a first proper go at Prancin'.” He leaned in a little closer. “Truth told, even for your first go, you managed better than some of the older ones. Tis time we had some new blood.”

Frodo accepted a glass of elderflower cordial from Bilbo. “Did your sons, Hal and Ham, not wish to join the Prancers?” he asked after downing nearly half the glass in one gulp.

Bell Gamgee smiled a little sadly. “They didn't really have a chance. They was 'pprenticed off afore they could be asked.” Her smile brightened and she raised her cup in salute.  
“But we've got a new person to show fer the Hill.”

Bilbo and Hamfast raised their cups. “To Frodo Baggins. Hobbiton's latest Thrimidge Prancer,” Bilbo announced, and all three saluted the lad.

Hamfast lifted Frodo's Prancing stick, its tip trailing coloured ribbons, and studied it with a frown. “This ain’t the one Tom Buckleby carved for you.”

Frodo grinned at his uncle. “I hope you don't mind, but I borrowed Bilbo's old one, just this once.”

Bell chuckled archly. “You do know as how the Prancin' Pole them couples is dancin' around, and them sticks ye've all been wavin' about, is supposed to stand in fer somethin' else?”

Frodo frowned. “Something else?”

Bilbo chuckled. “Thrimidge was once a fertility festival. Although most of the symbolism has been lost under tradition. There's a reason Ted Sandyman referred to the male member as a stick.” He winked, pointing to a small rendition of a crescent moon part way down the borrowed Prancing Stick's length. “You'd better get Tom to make an adjustment to the carving on yours.” As light dawned, Frodo blushed furiously, much to the amusement of the adults.


	37. Hobbiton Handfasting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In honour of today I give you a wedding.

“Come in Mister Bilbo.” Bell set down her basin, turning to collect a mug from the kitchen shelves. “Ye'll stay for a cup of tea.” It wasn't a question and Bilbo grinned as he took a seat at the table.

“That's good of you, Bell. I see you've made a start. Here are the soft raisins and candied peels I promised.” He placed two small paper bags on the table even as Bell set a mug of strong tea before him and pushed the honey pot closer. 

Bell opened one of the bags, her eyes brightening as she sniffed the contents. “We do candied fruit in the Shire but there's somethin' special about the elven stuff. I swear they add some sort of spice to it.” She fished out a little cube of candied orange peel and popped it in her mouth, eyes rolling as she chewed. “Oh, now that's beautiful.”

Bilbo grinned. “I don't know about the spice but it does make cakes taste lovely. I see you've made a start on yours.”

“Aye. That gives me plenty of time to steep it in brandy.” Bell winked as she took up her basin once more and began to stir it's contents. At present, the bowl contained only butter and powdered sugar. “Thank ye for the brandy too. It'll make a grand weddin' cake.” She sniffed. “Not that Fern Sandyman deserves it, after the trick she pulled on poor Master Frodo.”

“That's all in the past, Bell. Wyd Bracegirdle stepped up as soon as he discovered Fern's plight. I understand that they met when he was driving pigs and lambs to market every week. I think Borden Brewer will be keeping a closer watch on the comings and goings in his stable loft in future.”

Bell snorted, “Trust a Bracegirdle to get her pregnant. That clan could get a lass pregnant by just lookin' at her. Tis a wonder we're not overrun. Thank goodness they've not a brain between 'em. Most of the sensible lasses leave 'em alone.”

Bilbo decided he aught to defend the Bracegirdle clan, as they were not present to do so themselves. “Not all, surely. Hugo is always borrowing books from me.” 

Bell shook her head slowly. “Beggin' yer pardon, Mister Bilbo, but sometimes ye can be a bit blind. Hugo Bracegirdle don't actually read those books. He told my Ham that he only carries them around to impress the lasses.”

Bilbo was stunned for a moment. “That would explain why I always have to prompt him to return them. At least Ted Sandyman has come up with the coin to ensure that Fern and Wyd will have somewhere to live. Has Caly finished emptying Pansy's smial?”

Bell checked the colour of her mixture, adding eggs and flour when she deemed it pale enough. “She's only taken her sister's personal stuff. The furniture weren't worth sellin' on so she's let the young un's have it. Of course, Ted's been crowin' about that fer days.”

“Ted's always been one to find a bargain. Although I think it a pity he would not buy them somewhere better. Goodness knows, he has coin enough.”

Bell nodded. “Aye. Them smials along the river there flood too often for my taste. Still, the way Ted were goin' on they're lucky to get anythin', and mayhap they'll be able to afford somethin' better in a few year. Daisy's gone down today to help 'em clean up. Nobody's been in it since Pansy died.”

Pain flashed in Bilbo's eyes, for he had once considered offering for Pansy Goodbody, before he left on his adventure. Burying her last winter had brought home to him just how old he was getting. Other's had also noticed, and he had recently been considering taking up Lord Elrond's offer of a visit, but Frodo was not yet of age. “I doubt it. A butcher's apprentice doesn't earn much. Still, at least his uncle Bill is providing him with the job.”

“Aye.” Bell began folding in dried fruit, cherries, raisins, and the gifts from Bilbo. “Have ye heard whether Penly Whitfoot is here?”

“Frodo tells me he arrived this morning and has taken his usual room at the Ivy Bush. He has two more weddings to perform before Fern and Wyd.”

“No doubt he's negotiated his usual room rate, with Borden,” Bell pointed out with a sniff. “Penly's never been backward at usin' his title to get a good rate.”

Bilbo chuckled. “There are few other advantages to being Mayor and Borden Brewer is happy enough, as long as payment for the room covers the cost of linens and food. Borden has always considered it his gift to the wedding parties.”

Bell tipped her cake mixture into a waiting pan. “The amount Penly eats, poor Borden will be lucky if he does cover the cost. I'm amazed our mayor can get through the doors, he's grown so round. The whole family runs to fat and his son, Will, is goin' the same way. Goodness knows, I like a hobbit to have a bit of flesh on him, but the Whitfoots try too hard. At least his regular visit has come afore Fern shows the same shape.”

Bilbo drained his tea, running tongue around his teeth to remove the last of the tannin. “They could always have jumped over the brush.”

Bell rolled her eyes at the innocence of bachelors. “And a finer way to declare yer in the family way I can't think of. Ted would have walked the pair all the way to Michel Delvin, rather than standin' fer that.”

“You're probably correct.” Bilbo stood. 

Just then, there was a knock at the yard door and Clover Mugwort stepped in. “Hello, Mister Bilbo. I thought I heard your voice. Don't let me interrupt, only I've brought this. I forgot when I called in before and you said as how you needed it for the cake, Bell.” The elderly lady held out a mug which was filled with powdered sugar.

Bell frowned. “But ye brought me the sugar earlier, Clover, love. I've put it in the mixture. Did ye forget?”

Clover blinked. “Well now. Fancy that. I must be gettin' old. Just lately I'm forgettin' all sorts.” She grinned. “Oh well. That's more for me to bake an apple pie. Yes. I'll make a pie.” Without a backward glance the old gammer left by the way she had come, leaving Bell and Bilbo staring at the door.

“She's been gettin' worse of late.” Bell noted with a worried frown. “Ever since she had the influenza this winter past.”

“I had noticed. She keeps forgetting to pay her rent but I've not the heart to mention it to her.” Bilbo straightened his waistcoat. “Well, I'd best get back. I left Frodo preparing luncheon and cooking is not one of his better skills. I'm still trying to get rid of the smell of burnt eggs from yesterday's lunch.”

Bell's greying brows climbed her forehead. “How ever did he manage to burn eggs?”

“By putting them on to boil and then sitting down to read a book. Seems Clover is not the only one with memory lapses. It's a blessing Frodo used a good pan or he would have burned the bottom out of it.”

“That lad takes too closely after ye, if ye don't mind me sayin' so.”

Bilbo chuckled. “You have a point. And it's a fact I think I'm rather proud of, on the whole.”

-0-

A week later, early on a bright June morning, Frodo and Daisy Gamgee were strolling down the hill together. Each carried a shopping basket, although Frodo's was empty, for he was on the way to market, Daisy's was filled with cleaning materials.

“How's the wedding planning going,” Frodo asked.

“Tis all done and dusted. I stitched the sixpence in Fern's hem yesterday and me and the lasses helped her make up the weddin' favours. We're goin' to send her back to her family after second breakfast, so we can decorate the smial. How are you and the lads doin'?”

Frodo grinned. “We'll be at the mill in plenty of time to pester your bride, don't worry.”

Daisy's laugh was bright on the morning air. “Tis good of you to stand by Wyd, after what Fern did to you.”

“She was just scared. And Wyd's family are too far distant, in Harbottle, to send many folk to the wedding here. I think they all appreciate you and the other lasses standing in as bridesmaids too.” 

They paused by the bridge across the Water and Daisy grinned. “Tis only right. The Bracegirdles can't afford to pay to stay at the Ivy Bush and I don't think Mister Sandyman is too pleased about havin' to put up Wyd's Ma and Da, never mind anyone else.”

“No doubt they're being charged for food, nonetheless. At least Wyd is fairing better in your smial.”

Daisy shrugged. “One more mouth for a week ain't no real bother to us, and your uncle has been sendin' down the odd pie to fill the table. I reckon Sam is lookin' forward to havin' his room to himself again, though. He's got used to spreadin' out since Ham and Hal moved out.” She grinned. “And Wyd snores somethin' awful. I reckon bein' a newly wed aint goin' to be the only reason Fern won't be sleepin', if you take my meanin'.”

“Daisy Gamgee, you are wicked,” Frodo announced with a laugh. “You'd best get moving. I can see Honeysuckle waiting for you by the gate and I need to buy some bacon for elevenses.”

Daisy waved down the lane at her friend. “Mayhap Wyd will give you a bit of a discount,” she called over her shoulder as they parted.

Frodo went on his way, doubtful that Wyd's uncle, Bill Bracegirdle, would allow any such thing.

-0-

Three days later Bilbo heard, “Oh no!” Frodo stepped into the hall, still fastening the last button on his waistcoat.

“What is it?” his uncle enquired, poking his head out of his bedroom doorway, obviously in the middle of tying his cravat.

“It's raining.”

“Is that all? It's only a shower, and it's supposed to be good luck to have rain on the morning of a wedding.” Bilbo returned to his bedroom, making one more attempt to wrangle his new cravat into submission. 

Frodo checked the window once more, hoping that Bilbo was correct. Now that he looked more closely he could see that most of the sky was blue so he dug out his comb and began to tackle his foothair. At least the wedding breakfast was to be held in Tom Cotton's barn. 

Half an hour later Bilbo was proved correct as he and Frodo stepped out into a fine Forelithe day. Bartimus and Nedes Brockbank met Frodo at the garden gate, but as they were about to depart, Bilbo caught his arm. “Not too rough, now. Remember the teasing is supposed to be just that. We don't want the bride and her maids to arrive looking as though they've been dragged through a hedge.”

“Don't you worrit Mister Baggins. We've done this before. Fern and her maids will look as pretty as they were when they set out,” Bartimus assured him.

Still, Bilbo bent close to whisper in Frodo's ear. “Be extra careful with Fern. Remember her condition.”

Frodo offered a smile of reassurance. “We will, Uncle.” They parted company there, Frodo and his companions running off toward Bywater and the mill, and Bilbo going to join the groom's party in the Ivy Bush Tavern.

As soon as her maids saw the lads approaching they surrounded Fern. Frodo and the Brockbanks had been joined by a couple more local lads and they danced about the lasses, trying to dart between them to catch the bride. The lasses joined hands to form a ring and began to chant. “Sing or snatch. Sing or snatch.”

Frodo led the way, his clear tenor voice opening with an ancient song, his companions providing harmony. The lads and lasses sang verses, turn and turn about, as they wended their way to the market square.

*Sweet Flora, my heart's delight  
Be loving, and do not slight  
The proffer I make, for modesty's sake  
I honour your beauty bright.  
For love, I profess, I can do no less  
Thou hast my favour won  
And since I see your modesty,  
I pray agree and fancy me,  
Though I'm but a farmer's son.

No! I am a maiden gay  
Tis very well know I may  
Have lads of renown, in country or town  
So! Robin, without delay  
Court Hazel or Prue, May, Diamond so true,  
Their loves will soon be won  
But don't you dare to speak me fair,  
As if I were at my last prayer  
To marry a farmer's son

My father has riches' store,  
Two hundred a year and more  
Beside sheep and cows, carts harrows and plough  
His age is above three score  
And when he does die, then merrily I  
Shall have what he has won  
Both land and kine, all shall be thine  
If thou'lt incline, and wilt be mine  
And marry a farmer's son

A fig for your cattle and corn  
Your proffered love I scorn  
Tis easy to know, my name is Flo  
And you're but a bumpkin born.  
Well, since it is so, away I will go  
And hope no harm is done.  
Farewell to you – I hope to woo  
As good as you – and win her too  
Though I'm but a farmer's son.

Be not in such haste, quoth she  
Perhaps we may still agree  
For lad I protest, I was but in jest  
Come, prythee sit down by me  
For thou ar't lad that veryily can  
Win me, if e'er I'm won  
Both straight and tall, genteel withal  
Therefore I shall be at your call  
To marry a farmer's son

Dear lady, believe me now  
I solemnly swear and vow  
No lords in their lives take pleasure in wives  
Like fellows that drive the plough  
For whatever they gain with labour and pain  
They don't with a scarlet run,  
As southern lads do. I never knew  
A High King's son that could outdo  
A country farmer's son.

 

When the lads finished on a rousing chord they made another mock attempt to capture Fern, but her maids intervened again and now it was the turn of the lads to chant, “Song or loose, Song or loose”. Daisy took up the challenge, her friends joining in. Once again the lads and lasses took their parts.

*My sweetheart come along,  
Don't you hear the fond song  
The sweet notes of the nightingale flow  
Don't you hear the fond tale  
Of the sweet nightingale,  
As she sings in those valleys below?  
So be not afraid  
To walk in the shade  
Nor yet in those valleys below

Pretty Daisy, don't fail,  
For I'll carry your pail,  
Safe home to your cot as we go  
You shall hear the fond tale  
Of the sweet nightingale  
As she sings in those valleys below  
But she was afraid  
To walk in the shade  
To walk in those valleys below

Pray let me alone  
I have hands of my own  
Along with you I will not go,  
To hear the fond tale   
Of the sweet nightingale  
As she sings in those valleys below  
For I am afraid to walk in the shade  
To walk in those valleys below.

Pray sit yourself down  
With me on the ground  
On this bank where sweet primroses grow  
You shall hear the fond tale  
Of the sweet nightingale  
As she sings in those valleys below  
So be not afraid   
To walk in the shade  
Nor yet in those valleys below

This couple agreed  
They were married with speed  
And soon to the bower did go  
She was no more afraid  
For to walk in the shade  
Nor yet in those valleys below  
Nor to hear the fond tale  
Of the sweet nightingale  
As she sung in those valleys below.  
(*traditional folksong)

They were almost at the Market Place by then. Once more the lads darted in, but this time the lasses' linked hands gave way easily and Frodo and Bartimus swept in, forming a chair with their arms, to lift a giggling Fern off her feet and carry her to the wedding, laughing maids running ahead to strew their way with rose petals.

As they entered the square, the assembled villagers shouted, “Here comes the bride, here comes the bride.” At one end of the crowded square an arch of ivy and blossom had been erected and beneath it stood a beaming Penly Whitfoot and a rather nervous Wyd Bracegirdle. Wyd's face cleared as he saw his bride, and as he and Barty set her down Frodo began to wonder whether Bilbo's misgivings about the match were wrong, for Fern gave her groom a wide enough smile.

Penly raised his arms and the cheering died down as groomslads and bridesmaids took their places to either side. “Fern and Wyd, today family and friends have come to witness you exchange vows and to share in the joy of this occasion.” Penly had his faults but nobody ever complained about his skills officiating at weddings. Now he smiled at the young couple. “Love changes with the seasons and the passion of springtime will be replaced by friendship before a yule hearth. Nothing in life stays the same, just as an acorn becomes a seedling, a strong and mighty tree and then, in old age, a refuge for others. So, your life together will grow and many will come to roost in the safety of its branches.”

At his signal, Wyd held out his hand and Penly carefully placed an acorn in the lad's palm.

“Fern and Wyd, do you declare that you are marrying of your own free will?”

Fern darted a glance aside. Her brother, Ortis, simply stared back with his usual sullen expression. Her mother gave a small nod of encouragement and Ted simply scowled. Fern straightened her back and joined her groom in replying clearly, “I do”.

From a small table, Penly lifted two green silk chords, holding them aloft. “When your lives crossed you formed eternal bonds.” He placed Fern's hand over Wyd's, with the acorn between, wrapping them lightly with the chords. Now Penly smiled at the bride. “Fern Sandyman, will you share in Wyd's pain and always try to ease it?”

Fern's, “I will,” trembled a little.

“Wyd Bracegirdle, will you share in Fern’s pain and always try to ease it?”

Wyd's reply was filled with conviction. “I will.”

All within the market square declared aloud, “So the binding is made.”

“Fern, will you share in Wyd's hopes and dreams?”

“Yes . . . I mean . . . I will.” Fern blushed as her mistep produced some good natured chuckles.

“Wyd, will you share in Fern’s hopes and dreams?”

“I will.”

Everyone declared once more, “So the binding is made.”

Penly grew serious. “Fern and Wyd will you honour each other as equals in this marriage?”

Wyn made a point of catching the eye of Ted Sandyman as he and Fern affirmed, rather emphatically, “I will.”

Fern's mother had tears in her eyes as she joined others in calling again, “So the binding is made.”

Penly placed his own hands upon the couple's. “Fern and Wyd, as your hands are bound together now, so your lives are joined in love and trust. The bond of marriage is not formed by these chords, but by the vows you have made, for you hold in your own hands the fate of this joining. May these hands be blessed this day. May they have the strength to hold through life's storms and the gentleness to nurture each other. May they build a marriage founded in love, and rich in caring.” 

Penly picked up a cushion, on which rested two plain gold rings. “I ask you to seal the vows you share by giving and receiving rings.” He nodded to the bride. “Fern, please make your vow.”

Fern lifted the larger of the two rings, her voice shaking a little as she vowed, “Wyd Bracegirdle, I will hold fast to you, for all the days of my life, until death parts us. To show that I have made this vow I give you this ring.” Wyd held turned their bound hands so his was uppermost and she slipped home the ring on his third finger.

At Penly's nod Wyd took the second ring, holding it above his brides hand, his voice clear as he declared, “Fern Sandyman, I will hold fast to ye, fer all the days of my life, until death parts us. To show that I have made this vow I give ye this ring.”

In her nervousness, Fern's finger must have swollen, for Wyd could not get the ring past her second knuckle. But Fern would not to be thwarted now. “Push!” she instructed loudly, wincing as Wyd complied. There was a round of embarrassed giggling, but Fern did not seem to care.

Penly unwound the cords, presenting one to each set of parents. It was noticeable that Ted passed his to his wife. “Accept these as a reminder of the vows made by your children. If ever their vows start to unravel, yours is the task of helping them to come back together.”

Bartimus leaned in to whisper in Frodo's ear, “Ted will probably whip them into line with it.” Frodo pretended he had not heard and Penly was speaking again before he could be forced to reply.

A beaming Penly raised his hands to declare, “Wyd and Fern, on behalf of all those present, and by the strength of your own love, I pronounce you married.” He winked at Wyd. “You may seal your vows with a kiss.”

Wyd did so, with great enthusiasm, and Frodo grinned when he saw Fern respond in kind. There was a roar of approval from those watching, accompanied by a round of applause as Fern and Wyd parted, their faces pink and eyes shining.

“The flowers! The flowers!” the bridesmaids called at once. With a twinkle in her eye, Fern lobbed her bouquet right at Daisy Gamgee, who nearly let it drop in her surprise. More than one person cast a knowing glance toward Bartimus Brockbank, who was looking rather smug.

“And now 'tis time fer the victuals!” called out Wyd's father, Dandy, to much applause and cheering.

-0-

It was mid afternoon by the time most of the food had been consumed and Wyd led his new wife to the cake, handing her the knife. Nedes Brockbank leaned in from Frodo's right to whisper, “Does Fern look a bit green to you?”

Fern was, indeed, looking a little pale and Frodo hoped this was not precursor to a bout of what Bell Gamgee referred to as, “the mornin' sickness”, apparently an affliction of many expectant mothers. Having overheard more than his share of discussions between females when living at Brandy Hall, it was a wonder to Frodo that any lass ever entered into the act of coupling, with it's potential consequences.

Nedes dug Frodo in the ribs. “She does. I reckon she's goin' to cast up. I hope she doesn't do it all over the cake. Daisy tells me that cake has been soakin' in brandy for a week or more. . . says you could get tipsy just takin' a sniff.”

Fortunately, Fern made it through the exchange of cake before Flora Bracegirdle and Betony Sandyman ushered her from the barn, ostensibly to freshen up before the dancing. Several of the male worthies of Hobbiton took that opportunity to approach Wyd, offering advice that produced much ribald laughter. 

Bartimus joined Frodo's table, Daisy Gamgee on his arm. “I don't think Wyd needs advice,” Daisy murmured with a grin. “He's got the tuppin' down well enough.”

Bartimus feigned shock, then fell into a laugh. “Daisy Gamgee, I hope your Ma doesn't hear you talk like that.”

Daisy tossed her curls. “What if she does? She knows, better than us, what those two have been gettin' up to.”

Frodo sighed. “I think, despite Ted Sandyman's best efforts, all of Hobbiton knows, and the rest of the Shire will catch on when the babe is born in November.”

Now Daisy shook her head. “Aye. There's bein' born early and then there's bein' born early. Nobody could pass off a nine month bairn for a six month one.”

Bartimus glanced over his shoulder to where the bride, accompanied by both mothers, had reappeared. Fern had brushed her hair and her bodice laces had been loosened somewhat, so that she looked less wan. Indeed, she was smiling broadly at her new husband, who tucked her under a beefy proprietorial arm. 

“They don't seem too fussed,” Bartimus declared. “They're not the first couple to wed in a hurry, either.” He nodded toward a sour-faced Ted Sandyman, who had been consuming a steady flow of cider all afternoon. “I think Ted's more upset than they are.” 

Ted was beckoning firmly to his wife, and Betony only had time to give one encouraging smile to her daughter before hurrying to his side. Daisy Gamgee frowned. “To hear Ted Sandyman tell it, Betony has him under thumb but 'tis clear who wears the breeches there.”

Bartimus grabbed Daisy's hand. “Who'll wear the breeches in our smial, Daisy?”

Daisy disengaged her fingers to smack Barimus' arm. “Who says we're goin' to find that out?”

Bartimus winced, but grinned as he rubbed his injury. “The bouquet says so.”

Daisy narrowed hazel eyes. “The bouquet may say I'm next to wed but it don't say who to.”

Bartimus slapped a hand to his chest, announcing for all to hear, “Daisy Gamgee, you've broken my heart.”

Daisy snorted. “Good.” 

“If I let you wear the breeches will you marry me?” her swain asked, with a bat of his eyelashes.

Daisy pursed her lips. “I'll think on it,” she announced with a coy twinkle in her eyes.

“Aye. Well just make sure ye'll be gettin' wed fer the right reason. I'll not be looked down on by the likes of Ted Sandyman.” All three jumped, as Bell Gamgee made her opinion known. 

Daisy grabbed Bartimus' hand and met her mother's gaze a little mutinously. “Lots of folk get wed afore they come of age.”

Bell narrowed her gaze at Bartimus, who disengaged his hand rather hurriedly. “Maybe we should get to know each other better before getting wed, Daisy,” he declared, in a voice holding so little conviction and so much pleading that Frodo had to tuck down his head to hide a smile.

Daisy's mouth fell open, then she stood, in a flounce of starched petticoats. Sticking her nose in the air, she stomped off with not a backward glance to either Bartimus or her mother. Bell took a moment to pat Bartimus' shoulder before following her tweenage daughter at a more sedate but equally determined pace.

Bartimus dropped his head into his arms on the table and Frodo let loose the laughter he had been holding in. “You're going to have an interesting ten years, caught between Daisy Gamgee and her mother.”

Bartimus looked up. “You don't suppose Mistress Gamgee would let us wed when I come of age? That's only five years.”

His friend chuckled. “I wish you luck in arguing that one.”

Bartimus dropped his head on his arms once more, his only response a long groan.


	38. A Wee Bit Foggy

“Hello Clover. You're up early.” Hamfast closed the garden gate to Number Three as he spied Clover Mugwort ambling up the hill, empty shopping basket over her arm.

“Hmph. Folks is gettin' too lazy these days.” Clover frowned.

“What do you mean? I'm headin' out at my usual time for a Mersday. Tis a fair walk to Bywater and I've a lot of work to do at the Sackville-Baggins today.”

“Don't know what the world's comin' to. I wanted some bacon and a few other bits but Bill Bracegirdle ain't opened up and there's not a soul at market.”

“Nor likely to be, neither. You know they don't start settin' out the stalls till seven o'clock. Most will only just be settin' out from their homes. Tis only half past five.” 

Hamfast studied his elderly neighbour. Clover had never been one to keep up with the latest styles but he was pretty sure that it had never been the fashion to wear one frock atop another, and she seemed to be sporting an assortment of brightly coloured feathers in her hair. “Tell you what, Clover, why don't you pop in and see Bell? She's just finishin' up first breakfast and I'm sure there'll be tea in the pot and a slice of toast to spare.” He held open the gate.

Clover seemed to give the matter some serious consideration. “I don't want to put her to no trouble.”

Ham shepherded her toward the door, “Tis no bother. And I happen to know Bell was meanin' to go to market herself today. Mayhap you can walk down together later.”

He opened the door and ushered her in, to find Bell at the kitchen sink. Daisy was brushing Marigold's hair and Sam was drying pots. Bell called over her shoulder. “Have ye forgot somethin', Ham love?”

“No lass. I've found somethin', or more proper, someone. Clover here was just comin' back from market.”

Bell turned about, with a frown, glancing across at the mantle clock. “From?”

Ham gave her a speaking look. “Aye. Seems Clover forgot they didn't open up 'til later.”

To her credit, Bell did not pause, despite noting the feathers in her elderly neighbour's grey hair. “Tis easy done, to lose track of time. Come along in Clover. Have a seat while I finish these breakfast pots. There's tea in the pot. Sam, pour Mistress Mugwort a mug. Tis a long walk to market and back and she'll have a thirst on her.”

“I'll be off then, Bell.” Hamfast made his escape, certain in the belief that his wife would sort matters.

Daisy was staring at Clover's dress and Bell tapped her on the shoulder as she passed to replace breakfast plates on the shelf. “Don't forget to feed the pig, Daisy.”

Daisy leaned in to whisper in her mother's ear while Clover was concentrating upon adding honey to her tea. “She's wearin' two frocks, Ma, and feathers!”

“I know. Off with ye. The slops is ready.” She made a point of handing over the bucket. With one more backward glance at the eccentrically dressed Clover, Daisy departed. “Sam, take yer sister out to play. I'll not be needin' ye for ought 'til second breakfast.” Once she and Clover were alone, Bell took a seat opposite her neighbour. “That old clock of yours has never told the right time,” she observed.

Clover stared into her mug. “Tis not the clock that's the matter, Bell.” When she looked up her eyes were brimming with tears. “I just thought four o'clock meant afternoon, it bein' mid summer and bright of a mornin'. I expect everyone's noticed I've been doin' a lot of stuff like that of late.”

Bell reached out to take Clover's hand, where it lay, listless, upon the table top. “Not too much, Clove, love.” She gave a soft smile. “But ye may want to go home in a bit and take off one of them dresses.” Reaching up, she picked half a dozen red and yellow feathers out of her neighbour's hair, laying them gently upon the table.

Clover's eyes widened and she looked down at herself, bursting into tears when she saw her dress. Bell was on her feet at once, rounding the table to sit at her neighbours side and draw her into a hug. “Tis alright, Clove, love. Most of us get a bit forgetful as we get older. Hush now.” She rocked Clover until the tears finally ran dry, drawing back to hand over a hanky when the storm was over. “Come on. Ye go and change while I put together second breakfast, then ye can come eat with us and we'll go down to market together.”

That evening Bell, Hamfast and Daisy sat around the kitchen table of Number Three. “Did you sort out Clover this mornin'?” Ham asked as he swallowed the last of his bacon sandwich.

Bell shook her head. “I'm thinkin' Clover's gettin' too forgetful to be livin' alone.”

“Aye. In the normal way of things her son would have been lookin' after her. But Harry's gone and the rest of her family's in Bree.”

Daisy refilled her father's mug with tea. “She once told me she had relatives in the Chubbs, but she didn't say who nor how close.”

“She does. I think she's got cousins on her mother's side, away over in Stock.” Bell held out her own mug for replenishment and Daisy obliged. “I don't know how close they are, though, and I think there was some sort of fallin' out. I'm not sure they'd take her in, even if she asked.”

“What do we do, then?” Daisy asked.

“Seems to me that the first thing is to see if she wants to go to family, and if family will have her,” Hamfast replied.

“But what if they don't?” his daughter asked, with some concern.

“Then we become family, as we've always been,” Bell replied calmly. “Clover's always been there for me when I needed help. 'Tis time to turn about and be there for her.”

Hamfast pursed his lips. “That sounds right, but can you manage, love. I know well enough that the burden will fall most on you, while I'm workin'.”

“I'll help,” Daisy offered. “I looked after Pansy Goodbody for a while and I've been helpin' out the Widow Rumble with her laundry and stuff for ages.”

Bell smiled at her daughter, with some pride. “There'll be no money in it, Daisy lass. I know Butter gives you a penny a week but Clover won't be able to afford that.”

Daisy looked affronted. “I don't want her money! Clover Mugwort's been like an aunty to me for as long as I remember. She is family.”

“Well said, lass.” Hamfast beamed at his eldest daughter. “But first things first, we need to speak to Clover and, mayhap, her family. If they can mend things we should give them the chance to care for their kin.”

“I've invited Clover for second breakfast tomorrow. That way at least we'll know she's gettin' a good meal in her at the start of the day,” Bell announced. “I'll talk with her after eatin'. Fer the time bein' she knows enough to know that she needs help, and mayhap we can work somethin' out.”

The next day dawned sunny and clear and Bell sent Sam around to Clover's as soon as second breakfast was on the table. Hamfast was away with Mister Bilbo to Needlehole in the north of the Shire, so it was a small family who sat down at table. Just Bell, Daisy, Sam and Marigold.

For some minutes there was quiet, as all concentrated upon their sausage and egg, but chewing slowed by the time they switched to bread and jam and the second cup of tea. Bell smiled as Sam reached out to wipe his little sister's sticky mouth. Marigold scowled and tried to pull away, but the lad had her measure and simply followed with his napkin. Bell poured more tea into Clover's cup. “Tis good to share breakfast. I miss havin' a table full.”

“Aye. Things have quieted down a bit now the older ones is gone. Them two lads of yours were a rowdy pair when they got goin'. Not that there was any harm in 'em,” Clover added quickly.

“Can't say I miss them much,” Daisy interjected, a little haughtily.

Bell chuckled, patting her eldest daughter's hand. “Ye just like bein' top of the tree.”

Daisy sniffed, the perfect image of her mother. “And what if I do. Tis my turn.”

There was a twinkle in Bell's eyes as she replied, “Aye, lass. Just so long as ye remember what it were like to be bottom branch and last in turn, when yer dealin' with the young uns.” 

Clover grinned at the tween, who appeared to be mulling over that advice. Meanwhile, Bell fetched a wet cloth from the sink and swept in to lay seige to her youngest's face and hands. When Marigold was scrubbed to her liking she shooed her, with Sam, into the back yard to play.

“Daisy, love. Would ye make us a fresh pot of tea?”

“Yes, Ma.” 

Daisy was becoming quite biddable of late and Bell's eyes narrowed in thought before she turned back to Clover. “I do miss my lads. I expect tis worse for ye, Clover, love. Ye'll be missin' Harry more than ever.”

Clover nodded. “Tis supposed to get better with time but it don't seem like three years since he went. Some mornin's I wake up to hammerin' out in the yard and I forget it's not him.”

Bell nodded. “If Tom Buckleby is startin' work too early don't be afraid to tell Mister Bilbo. He only let out the workshop again on the understandin' that ye weren't put out by it.”

Daisy brought back the big brown teapot and refilled Clover's mug, before topping up her mother's and her own. At a nod from her mother she re-joined them at the table.

Clover added honey. “He don't bother me none. Truth told, other than those times, tis good to hear some life in the place, and Tom does the odd job for me if I ask. He fixed that back door catch the other day and wouldn't take a penny for his efforts.”

“Aye. Tom's a nice chap. Not that he's a patch on your lad, Harry, when it comes to carvin'. Harry could carve a rose so fine ye'd want to sniff it.” Bell nodded to the mantle, where a little carved wooden box took pride of place beside Mister Bilbo's old clock.

“That were one of the last things Harry ever made. I'm glad it came to you.” Clover's eyes misted for a moment and she fished in her apron pocket for a hanky to dab at her eyes, before adding more honey to her cup.

“Hamfast were pleased as can be when he gave it fer my birthday. He ordered it months afore, so Harry could have plenty of time to carve it right. I'll never part with it, because it were a gift from both in a way.” Clover reached over to add more honey to her cup and Bell smiled. “Ye'r sure ye want to add more, Clover? That'll be yer third spoonful and ye usually only take one.”

“Oh. I'm that forgetful of late.” Clover's earnest gaze found compassion in Bell's. “I'm almost afraid of puttin' ought on to cook, for fear I'll forget and burn out the smial.”

Bell nodded. “If I'm honest, that's one of the reasons we invited ye fer breakfast.” A wave of her hand included Daisy in her statement. “Have ye thought on what to do about it? Tis only natural to become a bit foggy with age but most folk have family around to help.”

“My Harry should be here to look after his old Ma.” Clover asserted querulously, her gaze suddenly darting about the kitchen. “Where is that lad of mine, anyway?”

Daisy's eyes widened, and Bell patted her daughter's knee beneath the table. “He's gone, Clove. Remember? We lost him in that storm, three year since.”

“There I go again. Oh Bell, what am I to do?” Clover dropped her head in her hands and Bell rounded the table to sit at her side, slipping an arm about her trembling shoulders. 

“Ye're not alone. Have ye thought of letting family help? Daisy tells me ye've got relatives in the Chubbs.”

That had the effect of straightening Clover's spine and setting sparks in her eyes. “I'll not be beholden to Bramble Chubb! I'd rather live 'neath a hedge!”

Bell patted her hand, where it clenched upon the table. “Alright Clove . . . alright. Daisy said as how there may be some trouble there, but I had to ask.”

“I'm sorry, Bell. 'tis just that when me and Hamdon moved to the Shire, we asked Bramble if she'd put us up for a while. Just 'til we got on our feet and all. Ham's folk were from Bree, so there was only my side of the family to ask. Bramble said if I was daft enough to marry a lad from Bree, then I should stay in Bree. If it weren't for old Master Gorbadoc's kindness, me and Ham would have been under a hedge, and my little Harry no more than a faunt. Twas the Master of Buckland that put us in Mister Baggin's way, sayin' he had a smial and workshop had just come empty. No. I'd not ask Bramble for aid, had I not a wit left to remember her name.”

Daisy's eyes flashed but her mother laid a restraining hand upon her clenched fist.

“We've all said things in anger that we've come to regret later. Have ye and Bramble talked since? Mayhap age has softened her.”

Clover's lips thinned. “We aint given each other the time of day and I've not had word of her, or her family, for years.”

Bell released her daughter's hand to pat Clover's. “Then mayhap tis time ye tried. Holdin' on to hurts for so long aint good for a body. How's about we send a letter? My Sam could write it for ye. If Bramble's not changed her mind yer no worse off, but mayhap she's thought on it a while and doesn't know how to let ye know she's sorry.” When Clover began to waver, she pushed a little harder. “Come on Clove. Ye know me and Daisy will be happy to look after ye, but there's nothin' like family.”

Clover sighed. “Alright. Get your Sam to write, but Bramble Chubb always did live up to her name, all tangles and prickles.”

-0-

“Mr Frodo, can I ask a favour of you?”

Frodo opened his eyes, shielding them with the book in his hand as he looked up at his young neighbour. He had come into the garden a couple of hours ago, with the intention of reading, but warm sun and the gentle drone of bees had lulled him into a doze. Now he sat up. “Of course you can. Sit down.” He waved to a space on his rug and Sam settled down, cross-legged.

“Ma's asked me to write a letter for her and it's important, so I want to make sure I've got it right before we post it.” He held out a sheet of his best paper, a birthday present from Frodo last year, upon which was a meticulously penned missive.

“Of course.” Frodo accepted the page and began to read, brows rising as he perused. “I had no idea poor Clover was so . . . frail. It's very good of your family to help her. Please let me know if Uncle Bilbo or I can help in any way.”

Sam shrugged. “Thank you, sir. Tis only right we look after her. Mistress Mugwort has been aunty to me all my life. Ma says Daisy and her will do the lookin' after if needed, but family would be better.”

Frodo nodded. The Brandybucks had been kind to him after his parents died and he was certain that Uncle Saradoc and Aunt Esme loved him, but he had never really felt at home until he came to live with Bilbo. He handed the letter back. “That looks alright to me. You've kept to the point. Where does her sister, Bramble, live?”

“A tidy way. Over the river. Newbury.” Sam's voice held all the wonder of one who has never left his home village.

“I know, Newbury.” Frodo frowned. “I don't remember a Mistress Bramble, though. There again, I was young, and I would only have known her by a family name.”

“It's Chubb.”

Frodo's frown deepened. “I knew lots of Chubbs but I still don't remember a Bramble. Still, I don't suppose I met everyone.” He nodded toward the letter. “If you address and seal it I can take it down to the post for you later. I'm taking some letters for Bilbo.”

Sam grinned. “Would you? Ma gave me coin for the postage and I could do it, but I promised Pa I'd go help him with Widow Rumble's garden this afternoon, so I wouldn't be able to take it until tomorrow. I could give it to you on my way to Mistress Rumble's.”

“Of course. I'll drop in on my way home to let you know the cost.”

“Thank you, Master Frodo.”

When Frodo slipped into Bag End's kitchen he found his uncle beating cake batter. “Ooh! Are we having cake for tea?”

Bilbo's face was serious. “Not us, lad. Heather Twofoot passed away last night. Arty just popped in to let me know. I'm making this for old Daddy Twofoot. You can drop it off and present our condolences when you take the post down to Hobbiton. You know where he lives. It's that big cottage off Market Square, behind the The Ivy Bush.”

“I know it. Will he be moving in with family do you think, now that Mistress Twofoot is gone?”

“I don't know. Why? Have you grown tired of your old Uncle Bilbo already? Fancy a move, do you?” Bilbo grinned.

“I could never tire of you, Bilbo.” Frodo giggled. “Or at least of your library.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes as he began to fold in flour. “Oh, the mercenary nature of tweens,” he intoned, in a voice so reminiscent of Dora Baggins that Frodo's giggle escalated into a full-blown laugh.

-0-

Only a week later there was a knock at the back door to Number Three and Clover entered, holding a folded and still sealed letter in her fingers, as though she were expecting it to bite. She held it out to Sam, who was scrubbing potatoes at the table. Belatedly she offered Bell greeting before returning her gaze to the lad. “Can ye read this to me, lad? I can read a bit, but my hand is shakin' so that I don't reckon the words would stay still long enough for me to make 'em out.”

Sam rinsed his hands, accepting a towel from his Ma to dry them before opening the letter. The seal was unfamiliar, a tiny periwinkle, but the hand was very fine. He opened it carefully, going to the signature first. “Tis written by a noter but signed by somebody called Mistress Larkspur Banks.”

Clover frowned. “I don't know no Larkspur Banks. Oh, don't tell me tis meant for someone else and I've accepted it by mistake. I didn't think to look at the address.”

Sam rushed to reassure her at once. “No. I checked before I opened it. It's addressed to you.”

“I hope it ain't bad news. Letters is always bad news,” Clover muttered, wringing her hands.

Bell steared Clover to a seat at the table and joined her there. “Now, let's not find trouble afore it finds us. Let Sam read it.”

Sam cleared his throat and began.

“Dear Aunty Clover,

I do not expect you to know me, but I am Bramble's daughter. Ma passed away ten years ago but she often spoke of her sister, Clover. I was so pleased to receive your letter because I've been trying to trace you for the longest time. I know it will not be a surprise to you if I say that Ma was not the easiest person to get along with, but as she got older she changed, and I know she wanted to tell you how sorry she was for the way she treated you and Uncle Hamdon. I hope you will accept my apologies on her behalf.

As for your question . . . of course you can come and stay with us. We have a nice cottage with plenty of room for one more. There is just Bert and me and our girls, Candy and Mallow. The girls are already excited about their new aunty and have promised to help me decorate your room. But perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. Do you still want to stay with us if your sister is not here?

Please let me know as soon as possible if you want to join our little family and I will send Bert to fetch you. He says that if you just say the word he will come with the pony and cart, for you and whatever things you want to bring.

Please say you will come.

Yours sincerely

Larkspur Banks

(As dictated to Knapweed Noter.)”

 

Clover's eyes were wide. “She sounds a bit posh, don't she?”

Sam slid the letter across the table to her. “I think that's just the Noter. It's normal for them to tidy it up a bit as they write it down.”

Bell beamed at her neighbour. “Although 'tis a shame you won't get to make up with yer sister, it sounds like her daughter is a nice enough lass.”

Clover lifted the missive, squinting at it as though not quite believing what Sam had read. “All this time and I never knew I had a niece, nor grand-nieces.”

“Mayhap there's even more family you aint heard of. What are ye goin' to do, Clover, love?”

Clover shook her head slowly. “I don't rightly know. Tis a lot to take in. They're family but I've got family here, too.” She waved her hand to take in the whole of Number Three.

Bell Gamgee took the letter from Clover's fingers, folding it carefully before handing it back. “I think ye should sleep on it. Sam will write yer letter, whatever yer answer. If ye decide to stay here we will look after ye as one of our own, but just think on the fun ye could have with two little neices.” She stood. “Now. Will ye stay to sup with us or would ye like me to send round Daisy, with a plate when 'tis ready?”

-0-

A few days later Daisy Gamgee knocked at the back door to Number Two Bagshot Row, not waiting for a reply before letting herself in. Seeing no-one in the kitchen she made for the door to Clover's little bedroom. “Clover are you in here?” 

“What?” came the muffled reply.

“Can I come in?”

“Aye.”

Daisy opened the door to enter a darkened room. “Are you poorly, Clover?”

A small lump beneath the bed covers replied, a little grumpily, “No. But I will be if folks keep wakin' me up in the middle of the night.” Clover sat up, revealing a scowl and that she was fully dressed. “What's the matter? Is your Ma sick?”

Daisy frowned in confusion. “No. She sent me round to see if you were sick. We were worried when you didn't come for lunch.”

“Lunch? Why would we be havin' lunch in the middle of the night?”

So certain did Clover sound that Daisy began to question her own world-view, and was relieved when a tweek of the curtains at the window admitted a beam of bright sunshine. “Tis midday, Clover.”

Clover blinked as she processed this piece of unexpected information. “Midday? But we had supper not an hour since.”

Daisy sat down upon the edge of the bed, her voice soft. “No Clover. You had second breakfast with us, then came home. You said you were goin' to do some mendin'. Ma weren't too worried when you didn't come for elevenses but she sent me to make sure you were alright when you missed lunch.”

Tears began to gather in Clover's brown eyes as she looked down at her crushed skirts. “I've got in a muddle again, haven't I?” Fishing about in her apron pocket she produced a hanky and blew her nose. “Oh, what am I goin' to do?”

Daisy patted her hand. “Tis alright, Clover. There's no real harm done and Ma's set aside some ham and a tomato if you still want lunch.”

Clover gave a disconsolate shake of her head. “I don't think I want ought to eat.”

“Then why don't I make us a nice pot of tea? You come join me when you've straightened up a bit.” Daisy returned to the kitchen. Here, at least, most was in order, although it took her a while to find the tea caddy amongst the newly washed pots on the drainer. By the time she was pouring hot water into the teapot a much tidier Clover appeared, still clutching her hanky.

Daisy stirred the pot as Clover sat at the small table. “I found a couple of scones and some jam in the pantry, so I thought we could have a snack.” Daisy had learned well from her mother that folks disinclined to eat could often be tempted if the food was put in front of them. Sure enough, Clover helped herself to a scone and a dollop of jam. Daisy handed over a large mug of tea and took a seat opposite. Lunch was but half an hour ago, but she was a tween, and tweens never turned down food. She salved her conscience by telling herself that she was encouraging Clover, and Ma was going to bring down a strawberry flan later, when she finished her baking.

“Have you thought any more on whether you're goin' to move?” Daisy asked around a mouthful of scone and jam.

Clover frowned. “Move what, lass?”

“Move you. Remember? You've been invited to go live with your niece and her family.”

“Niece?” Clover waved a dismissive hand, announcing querrilously, “I can't be expected to keep everythin' straight in my head.”

Daisy resisted the urge to sigh, seeing the letter upon the table and sliding it closer. “Larkspur and her lasses are lookin' forward to havin' you.”

Clover's confused expression cleared. “They are, aren't they? I was readin' her letter again only this evenin' . . . no . . . this mornin'.”

“So, have you decided?”

Clover frowned as she set down her scone. “I don't know. Tis a tidy way to travel alone, and I'm not as young as I was.”

Daisy smiled. “But you won't be alone. Larkspur's husband, Bert, will come for you.”

“But what if I get there and decide I don't like 'em? What if they don't like me? I won't have no home to come back to and no way of gettin' here if I did.”

“I'm sure Mister Bilbo will wait a while afore lettin' out the smial again, if that's what's stoppin' you. Or maybe you could go for a short visit first?” Daisy offered.

“A visit? That could work I suppose. But I don't want to be no trouble to no-one.”

“You're never a trouble to us, Clover. You've been an aunty to me for all my life. Tis good to be able to do somethin' for you in return.”

Clover smiled for the first time. “There's those who think ye're too big for yer petticoats, Daisy Gamgee, but there's a soft heart under all them frills.”

Daisy laughed. “Don't you go tellin' that to all and sundry. Bartimus Brockbank don't need to know he can wrap me round his finger if he's a mind to.”

“Lass, he's known that for months. Why do you think he stays around?”

-0-  
So it was that a month later Bell Gamgee was helping her neighbour to pack a bag for a visit to her newly discovered family. “Don't ye go worritin' about the smial, Clove. Me and Daisy will run through it after, ye've gone, to make sure the fire's out and the pantry's cleared. And we'll pop in regular to check nothin's gone amiss.”

“You're a good neighbour, Bell. I think I've caught all, but it'll be good to know ye're keepin' an eye on things. My head is so muddled of late that I'm likely to leave a crock of milk to go off or a candle burnin'.”

There was a loud knock at the front door and Clover flinched. Then she smoothed the skirts of her best frock and went to answer. A round, barrel of a hobbit stood upon the threshold, his broad face wreathed in an equally broad grin. “Are ye Aunty Clover?”

Clover was almost bowled over by the warmth of that smile. “Aye. I suppose I am. Twill take a bit of gettin' used to, but I reckon I must be.”

The round hobbit at her door gave a bright laugh. “I'm Bert, Larkspur's husband. But ye know that. Are ye ready fer the off? Only I wanted to get as far as Bywater today, then give old Prancer an overnight rest afore settin off back. I've got a couple of rooms booked at the Green Dragon.”

Bell and Clover leaned aside to look around Bert's generous frame. In the lane was a brightly painted cart, drawn by an old, but obviously well cared for, pony. The name “Prancer” may have been appropriate at one time, but it must have been several years in the past, for Prancer was far too round to do any such thing nowadays.

Noting their skeptical faces Bert laughed again. “He's getting' long in the tooth but don't ye worrit, Aunty Clover. He'll get us there . . . and back if ye've a mind fer it. Although I think Larkspur and the bairns would be disappointed if ye decided not to stay.” He shrugged. “Still. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, as my Da used to say. Let's get this cart loaded. Have ye lots to take?”

Clover did not have a lot, and it took but minutes to load the small cart. Bell stood by her friend as Bert worked. “Now, don't ye forget to send word of how yer doin'. If ye can't afford a noter, Tom Carter will bring a message, and Mister Bilbo says, if yer still there, he'll pop in to see ye next time he's visitin Brandy Hall.”

“Clover! Wait a minute!” Daisy Gamgee came trotting up the lane, hampered in speed by having to hold a large, round tin, level in her hands. When she reached Clover she thrust out the tin. “Me and Buttercup have baked you a cake. Tis hard iced and wrapped so it should be good for the journey as long as you don't open the tin.”

Clover passed the tin to Bert, who stowed it with the rest of her meagre baggage. Then she drew Daisy into a tight embrace. “Lass, ye've been as a daughter to me. I'll miss ye.” She eyed Bert a little sceptically. “If I decide to stay.”

Bert grinned, brown eyes twinkling. “Yer welcome to visit, lass. Ye may have to share a bed with the bairns but we'll fit ye in.”

Daisy gave Clover one last squeeze, then stood back. By now all were on the verge of tears, for they suspected it could be their last time together, but it was Bell who grounded them, straightening with a sniff to announce, “Well now. That's enough of the blubberin'. Time ye were on yer way if yer to make it to the Green Dragon afore they stop servin' suppers.”

“Right ye are, Mistress. Come on Aunty Clover. Let me help ye onto the cart.” Bert held out a strong and work-worn hand in invitation, but Clover waved him away. 

“My mind may be foggy, lad, but I can remember how to get onto a cart.” She stepped up as spritely as a tween and settled her skirts about her on the cushioned board. “Daisy, thank ye for the cake, and pass my thanks to Butter.”

Daisy's bottom lip was quivering too much to speak so she only nodded tightly, and Bell put a comforting arm about her daughter's shoulders.

Bert chuckled softly as he unhitched Prancer, hoisting a heavy tether-weight into the cart. “Don't ye worrit, me and Larkspur will look after Aunty Clover, and the lasses can't wait to climb all over her.”

Clover was recovered enough to look scandalised. “Well, I hope they remember I'm an old gammer, not a tree.”

Bert only laughed the louder before clucking to his pony. “Come on, Prancer. There's a bag of oats and a warm stable waitin' for ye in Bywater.”

Clover did not look back as Tom guided them down the lane, but Bell and Daisy watched until the cart turned the corner at the foot of the hill, where several folk had come to wave her off, and disappeared from view. Bell decided that, if she was any judge of character, Clover would find her welcome with the little Banks family, and Hobbiton would not see her again.


	39. Death and Life

“Bilbo, how old were you when your parents died?”

Bilbo pulled his gaze from the soothing flicker of the parlour fire. “Gracious, lad, whatever brought that to mind?”

Frodo shrugged, setting down his book. “I suppose I was thinking of Mistress Mugwort. She’s never been quite the same since her son died.”

“Ah. Clover has been much on my mind too. I'm glad your Aunt Esmeralda took the time to visit the Banks family for us. I did want to put my mind at rest that all was well. She says they’re a very good sort. Bell and Hamfast are going through Clover’s belongings to send those she listed, and I’ve asked Tom Carter to stop by to collect them next week.”

For some minutes they sat in companionable silence, then Frodo asked again, “But how old were you?”

The silence that followed was longer than Frodo would have liked, and he wondered whether he had touched upon something that still pained his uncle. But when Bilbo spoke again his tone was light. “I was in my thirties when they died. My father went first, only three years after I reached my majority. He did not return from the Ivy Bush one night and they found him face down in the Water next morning.”

“I'm so sorry, Bilbo.” Frodo sighed. “Our family does seem to have a poor affinity for water.”

Bilbo nodded. “Bungo liked a drink but, despite the talk at the time, I don't believe drink was the reason for his accident. You know how slippery the planks on that bridge become in winter. There's been talk of building a stone one for ages, but we never seem to get around to it.”

“Some people can be cruel,” Frodo commented ruefully, and Bilbo offered him an understanding smile. 

“Some can, but not all. My mother lived for another eight years or so, but she seemed to have lost her spark and just faded away. She died seventeen years before Gandalf knocked upon my door and yet I was still missing her. I think, had she still been alive, I would never have taken that journey. It is strange how things turn out.”

“Do you still miss them?”

Bilbo knocked the dottle from his pipe on the fender and fished in his pocket for a penknife. “My parents? It hurt a lot in those first few years but, with time, the pain lessened, and the many good memories crowded out the few bad ones.”

Frodo touched the little hole in his own heart and swallowed. 

“And what about you, Frodo. I have been lax in enquiring but, if I'm honest, I did not want to open old wounds. Do you still miss your parents?”

Frodo let his eyes roam the comfortable room as he pried tentatively at the walls around his hurt. “For many years I tried not to look at the memory . . . tried not to feel. I think that’s why I was always getting myself into trouble at Brandy Hall. I needed the distraction.” He allowed himself a tiny smile. “But Bell Gamgee is very easy to talk to.”

“Bell does have a way of collecting confidences,” Bilbo replied, adding with a wink, “Thank goodness she also has a way of keeping them.”

“I've been thinking about Mama and Papa a lot, of late. It's not easy after all this time. Sometimes I have trouble even remembering what they looked like, although I know Mama had dark hair and smelled of lavender.”

Bilbo scraped determinedly at the inside of his pipe bowl. “You were very much younger than I when your parents died.” He tipped his scrapings into the fire and sucked experimentally. Apparently satisfied that it was clean he stretched up to lay the pipe upon the mantle. “I seem to remember your Aunt Esmeralda being a bit of an artist in her youth. Would you like me to write to her? She may have made a sketch of Drogo or Prim at some time.”

Frodo's eyes widened. “Would you? If she has a drawing I would be happy just to see it once.”

“I shall write in the morning. Your aunt keeps a good track on Baggins family doings so, if she does not have a sketch, she will be the one to know if anyone else has.”

“Did she do that drawing of you? The one that you try to hide in your study?” Frodo enquired with a mischievous grin.

“Hide? I don't hide it.” Bilbo adopted his best innocent manner. “I just don't understand why anyone would want to look at it.” 

“When was it drawn? Did Aunt Esme do it?”

“If you must know, it was drawn by an elven acquaintance of mine. We meet, upon occasion, in the wilds above Needlehole.”

Frodo's interest was piqued at once. “I always wondered why you went up there. Is it Gillas? The elf we met on the road to the Tower Hills?”

“Actually, no. But he is a relative of Gillas, I believe. Like him, his people wander the land, sometimes escorting their kindred to the Havens.”

“What's his name?”

Bilbo considered for a moment. “Elves are a very secretive people. I don't think it would be proper to share his name with another without first asking his permission. Perhaps I will take you to meet him one day.”

Frodo sighed. “It seems that all the peoples of Middle earth are secretive. Even the dwarves, who come trading sometimes, don’t have much to say about their home in the mountains. You’ve told me more about the Lonely Mountain than they do.”

“There you have rather touched upon the biggest fault with this world, including the Shire, I’m afraid. We are all so absorbed in our own doings that we have become disinterested in the wider world.” Bilbo shook his head. “The world is growing dark, Frodo. Oh, the Shire is safe for the moment, but beyond our borders there are things moving in the shadows.” When he saw Frodo shudder he shrugged, as though chasing away unpleasant memory. “Don't mind me, Frodo. I'm Mad Baggins, remember? I fear I've spent far too much time locked up with elvish history of late.” He drew a deep breath. “Enough of my maunderings. What do you think of that book?”

By luncheon the next day Bilbo had written his letter and Frodo combined a trip to the market in Hobbiton with a visit to the Ivy Bush Tavern, where Borden Brewer acted as local postmaster as well as landlord. There he met Bartimus Brockbank and the two wondered through the various market stalls together.

“Look, Frodo. There’s Fern Bracegirdle. Wow! She’s huge!”

“Barti! She’ll hear you.”

“She’s carryin’ low. That bairn will drop soon.” Both lads turned to discover old Buttercup Rumble behind them. She gave them a toothless grin from above her huge muffler. “A six-month bairn, my eye!” she scoffed. 

For a moment Frodo was mesmerised, for her muffler must have been longer than she was tall. It went over her head and wrapped around her neck and chin at least twice, before being knotted, it’s ends reaching down to her waist. “Cat got yer tongue, lad?” 

“No, indeed.” Frodo hastily stepped aside to allow her access to the fish stall. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about having babies.”

Buttercup cackled. “And fish live on dry land,” she crowed.

Frodo’s mouth opened but no sound issued, and Bartimus rescued him by the simple expedient of grabbing his friend’s arm and steering him toward Olin Bakers shop. The two stood, looking at the heaps of fresh baked loaves, although neither made any move to buy. From the corner of his eye Frodo watched Fern’s gravid progress through the market.

“Have you two made up?” Bartimus asked when he discerned the subject of Frodo’s gaze.

“I haven’t spoken to Fern since wishing her good fortune at the wedding. She seems happy with Wyd at least.”

“But are you still mad at her?”

Frodo considered for a moment. “Do you know, I thought I was over it by the time of the wedding, but every time I see her I feel a little knot of resentment, here.” He rubbed his stomach. 

Bartimus snorted. “I’m not surprised. In fact, I’m more surprised you’re civil to her at all.” Both lads turned to watch as Fern, obviously having completed her shopping, turned for home, down the lane which led across the bridge.

Frodo frowned, wondering what it would have felt like to be a father. Perhaps one day. At that moment Olin appeared. “What can I get you, gents? I’ve some nice fruit loaf if you fancy something for your tea. Lovely toasted with a good spread of butter.”

-0-

Almost two weeks later the postman, (Borden Brewer’s pot boy) climbed the hill from Hobbiton to deliver a large, flat package to Bag End. Frodo answered the door, bringing the parcel through to the kitchen and setting it by Bilbo’s plate. “The postmark says it’s from Brandy Hall,” he observed with some curiosity.

Bilbo set down his fork, wiping hands upon a napkin before breaking the large red wax seal and grabbing the bread saw to cut the string. Brown paper parted to reveal a letter and what appeared to be a piece of board. Lifting the letter, Bilbo began to read. “It’s from your Aunt Esmeralda. She says all Clover’s belongings have arrived safely at Newbury. Clover sends her regards to all and most especially to the Gamgee family.”

“I shall pop down to Number Three later to let Mistress Gamgee know,” Frodo offered, his eyes still upon the contents of the package.

“Esme says that she doesn’t know of any sketches made of your parents at the time, but she has tried to draw some from memory. She hopes she has done them justice.” Bilbo lifted the board, to discover that it was protecting a large piece of thick paper. “Oh my.”

Frodo left his seat to lean over his uncle’s shoulder. For a moment his heart seemed to stop, and he had to remind himself to breathe as memories flooded in. Here was Papa.

Drogo Baggins, like so many hobbits, was fond of his victuals, and it showed in his round face. Esmeralda’s simple pencil drawing had rendered the twinkle in his eyes perfectly, the permanently dishevelled nature of his light brown hair and the broad smile that lifted his cheeks.

Bilbo slid the picture aside to reveal another and Frodo had to fish in his pocket for a hanky. Primula Baggins stared up at him from pale eyes that, Frodo remembered now, were the same sky blue as his own. Her glossy dark curls were dressed with a ribbon, and full lips were bowed in a warm and winsome smile.

Bilbo glanced up at his nephew and then back to the drawings. “She has more than done them justice. You have your mother’s eyes and your father’s smile. Esme does not draw enough nowadays. She has a rare skill when she puts her heart into it.”

Frodo swiped at his eyes and blew his nose. “I had no idea Aunt Esme could draw at all. I don’t ever remember seeing her do so.” He ghosted a finger across the delicate rendition of his Mama’s cheek.

“Esmeralda used to draw a lot as a lass, but I suppose when Menegilda died and Rorimac passed on the running of the Hall to Saradoc, she could no longer find the time. We should ask Tom Buckleby to frame these for you. Then we can hang them on the wall.”

“I would like to have them framed, but would you mind terribly if I hung them in my bedroom?”

“Of course not, lad. They’ll look fine over the mantle, where you’ll see them when you wake up every morning.”

Frodo leaned down to wrap his arms around Bilbo’s shoulders in a quick hug. “Thank you, Bilbo. I can drop them off at Tom’s workshop when I visit the Gamgee’s. Then I must sit down and write a thankyou letter.”

-0-

Drawing his cloak closer about his body, Frodo ran from Tom Buckleby’s carpentry workshop to the back door of Number Three Bagshot Row. Marigold Gamgee must have been watching at the window as she stood at the sink, because the door was opened even before he had time to knock.

Bell Gamgee’s voice came from the dim interior somewhere behind her youngest daughter. “Come away in, lad, and hurry about it afore that wind steels all the heat.”

Grinning, Frodo obliged his neighbour, closing the door himself, once he was safely inside. He blinked, eyes adjusting to the darker interior of the winter kitchen. Bell smiled up at him from her chair by the range. “Marigold, top up that pot and pour Master Frodo a mug of tea. He looks half froze.”

Frodo slipped off his cloak, laying it aside before stepping before the range to warm his hands. “It is turning quite bitter out there. Even Tom has his stove lit.”

Bell nodded, before returning to her mending. A large bedsheet was draped over her knees to pool on the floor about her feet, and Frodo frowned, for she seemed to be stitching a long seem right up the centre of it. “Are you making something?”

“Makin’?” Bell’s frown cleared. “More like, remaking. This sheet is so old tis getting’ thin so afore our Sam puts his foot through, I’m side-to-middlin’.”

Frodo accepted a mug from Marigold, who gave him a shy smile before returning to her station, stepping onto a low stool so that she could reach to wash the luncheon pots. “Side-to-middling?”

Bell paused long enough to wave him to Ham’s chair on the opposite side of the hearth. “When a sheet’s thinin’ in the middle ye chop it in half, turn both ends around and stitch it back together again. That way the thin bit’s now on the edge. Tis a big job but the sheet lasts a bit longer. But ye didn’t come visitin’ to ask about my mendin’. What brings ye to my door today?”

“I was dropping something off at Tom’s and thought I’d pop in to pass on a message. My Aunt Esmeralda wrote to say that she had visited Mistress Mugwort again, and all Clover’s belongings have arrived safely. Clover asked my aunt to pass on her regards to you.”

Bell smiled broadly. “Well, now, that’s good news and I thank ye for it. And t’were good of yer …” She was interrupted by a rap at the front door. “Now who can that be? Seems tis my day for callers.”

Unlike her older sister, Marigold needed no prompting and was soon unlatching the round front door, to reveal a pale and gasping Fern Bracegirdle. Bell took one look at her latest visitor and jumped to her feet. “Come away in lass. Whatever brings ye out on a day like this in yer condition?” She escorted Fern to the chair hastily vacated by Frodo. “Marigold, fetch a blanket. Fern, lass, yer almost blue. Young folk. Sometimes I think ye’ve not the sense ye were born with.” Almost to herself she added, “Although some seems born with more than others.”

Fern sat down gratefully, still trying to master her breath as she held out a large, empty milk pail. “There weren’t no milk left at market, so I thought I’d come up and see if Mister Sedgebury had any, but he weren’t home and I came over all funny.” She winced, rubbing a hand across her vast stomach.

Bell accepted a mug of tea from Frodo and placed it in Fern’s hands. “Take a sip of this. What was Wyd thinkin’ of, sendin’ ye out in this weather?”

Fern leapt to her husband’s defence at once. “Please don’t go thinkin’ bad of him. He’s away on business for Bill. He didn’t want to go, my time bein’ so close an’ all, but Bill twisted his ankle on the ice a couple of days ago, so he had to go in his place.”

“How are things, down there?” Bell asked with a nod to Fern’s huge belly.

Fern winced. “My back’s been botherin’ me since early this mornin’ but tis alright.”

Frodo collected his cloak, hoping to make a quick exit, for this conversation was getting a little too specific for his taste. As he was swinging it about his shoulders, however, Bell looked up. “Not so fast, lad. We may need ye.” She ignored his stricken expression, returning her attention to Fern. “Have ye had this pain afore?” 

Fern gasped, squirming a little in the chair, and her reply came through clenched teeth. “Can’t say’s I have.”

Bell nodded sagely. “It runs from back to front? Feels like someone is pullin’ strings down to the floor?”

Fern’s eyes widened with each question, realising where they were leading. “It can’t be that. Tell me tis not that. Tis too early. Folks will know.”

Bell sniffed. “Just who do ye think don’t know that ye were expectin’ afore ye wed?”

Fern looked stricken. “They guessed but they didn’t know. I was hopin’ to hold on a bit longer.”

At Fern’s expression Bell softened, accepting the blanket from Marigold and draping it about the expectant mum’s legs. “Oh, lass. Bairns come when they’re ready. Ye can’t just tell ‘em to hold on another month or two. Now, where’s Wyd gone? We can send someone to fetch him.”

Tears began to roll down Fern’s face. “He’s away over in Harbottle. ‘Tis two days to get there and back.”

Bell glanced out of the window, where a strengthening wind was bowing branches on trees across the lane. “Likely longer in this weather.” She straightened. “Well, he’ll come home to a nice surprise and that’s all there is to it. There’s no point in sendin’ ye home alone, even if it were safe to go that far in yer state. Ye’ll have to stay here.”

“I couldn’t. Won’t Master Gamgee be angry?” Fern asked as she looked about the ordered and homely Gamgee residence.

“Now, why ever would he be angry? And even if he was, tis not somethin’ that can be helped.” Her sniff told Fern all she needed to know about Bell Gamgee’s relationship with her husband. “He’ll live with it or join Clara in the barn. Now, let’s get ye settled in our bed.” A twinkle appeared in Bell’s eyes. “If he don’t want to share with a cow, Ham can bed in with Sam fer one night. With our brood twon’t be the first time. The birthin’ room’s no place fer fella’s.”

Frodo swallowed his fear, straightening his shoulders. “What can I do to help?”

Bell smiled kindly at him. “Good lad. Will ye go fetch Aster Tunnelly? Tell her Fern’s about twelve hours in.” When Frodo would have bolted for the door she stayed him. “No need to run. Fern won’t be poppin’ for many an hour yet. The first one always takes longest, and we don’t need ye to break a leg afore gettin’ to Aster’s. I’ve birthed enough bairns to know the ropes, but I’d rather have the midwife here.”

Once out of the door, Frodo ignored Bell’s instruction, running as fast as he could. Later, having escorted Aster Tunnelly back to the hill, Frodo took refuge in Bag End, his close brush with potential fatherhood having only birthed in him a strong desire to put as much distance as possible between himself and Fern Bracegirdle.

It was as Frodo was raking the ashes from the kitchen range to prepare for first breakfast the next day, that a beaming Sam Gamgee came calling. Bilbo entered from the hallway, still knotting his cravat, as Frodo opened the back door.

“Pa says will you and Mister Bilbo come down to Number Three to join him in wettin’ the head of Mistress Bracegirdle’s baby?”

Frodo looked to his uncle for advice. “Of course we’ll come,” Bilbo called expansively, on behalf of them both. Too polite to wish to make his uncle appear a liar, Frodo plastered on a smile and allowed himself to be led down the hill.

Number Three’s kitchen appeared full to bursting. As well as Bilbo and Frodo there were, Daisy, Sam, Marigold, Bell and Hamfast Gamgee, Aster Tunnelly and, surprisingly, Fern’s mother, Betony Sandyman. Of Ted Sandyman there was no sign.

Ham Gamgee bowed them in and, from his wide grin and slightly unsteady gait, Frodo suspected that he may have been doing a little too much head wetting already. “Come in sirs. Tis many a year since we’ve heard a bairn’s cry on the row.”

Behind him, Bell rolled her eyes then tilted her head to Frodo. Curious, he moved to join her as soon as Hamfast turned to pour cider into a mug for Bilbo. Bell took Frodo’s arm, ushering him toward the bedrooms. “Fern wanted to see ye special,” she confided, and Frodo’s heart dropped to somewhere around his knees. 

Feeling him tense, Bell smiled. “Stop yer worrittin’. Fern’s not about to say anything daft. Her and Wyd have settled in nicely together, and I don’t doubt there’ll be lots more bairns in the future.” She pushed him gently into the room before closing the door behind him.

Fern lay in the middle of the large bed, a small bundle at her breast. Frodo blushed at the sight but when she beckoned him closer, fascination made him comply. His gaze was drawn at once to the tiny pink face pressed close to Fern’s paler skin. All unwitting, he found himself smiling at the sight.

“She’s called Anemone,” Fern announced quietly. When her eyes met Frodo’s there was a peacefulness within, that had never been there before.

“She’s so tiny,” Frodo observed.

“Thank goodness,” Fern asserted with a grin. “I wouldn’t want no bigger. As it is, I don’t think I’ll be sittin’ without a cushion for a few days.”

Frodo tried to smile away another blush. “She is beautiful.”

Fern patted the mattress and Frodo perched stiffly upon the edge. “Frodo, I asked Bell to fetch you special. I wanted to say how sorry I was for what I did to you. It weren’t right and I didn’t tell you proper afore. Will you forgive me?” Anemone had stopped suckling and Fern adjusted her clothing.

“Thank you, Fern. I think I forgave you a long time ago but thank you.” He offered a genuine smile, his voice a little wistful as he added, “Although I almost wish she was mine.”

Fern gave a proud smile. “Would you like to hold her?”

His eyes widened, and he would have refused, but Fern was already holding out the little swaddled bundle, showing him how to support body and head. When Bell looked in a few minutes later Fern was dozing, and Frodo was humming a soft lullaby to Anemone. With a nod of approval, she collected the babe, laying her in the Gamgee family cradle at the bedside. Quietly, she ushered Frodo from the room. “All’s forgiven, then?”

“Yes.” Frodo took a deep breath, feeling freer than he had for a long time. Within the space of twenty-four hours he had regained some of his own childhood and had the privilege of being one of the first to welcome another child to the magic of that journey. Life was good. “They’re going to be a very happy family, I think.”

Bell grinned. “Come and have a mug of cider, afore my husband drinks the lot and I have to pour him into a bed afore the day’s even started proper. He’s that pleased ye’d think it were one of his own bairns.”

Frodo followed her back into the crowded kitchen, wondering whether one day he would be wetting the head of his own bairn. He hoped that, if the occasion arose, his kitchen would be as full of friends and well-wishers as Number Three was today. Grinning widely, he accepted a brimming mug from Hamfast, lifting it in a toast to little Anemone Bracegirdle, Hobbiton’s newest resident.


	40. Baggins', Brandybucks, and Bairns

A pair of muddy, but good-humoured, members of the Baggins family strode into the courtyard of Brandy Hall. The huge front door stood closed, so Frodo tugged on the bell-pull. When there was no reply after a little while, Bilbo knocked. With still no reply Bilbo rolled his eyes and tried the handle. The large round door split open easily down its centre at Bilbo's touch, a waft of warm air beckoning in the weary travellers. Bilbo exchanged glances with his nephew before leading the way inside. “They're probably all in the fields.”

Bilbo was about to call out when a small, tousled head, peeped out from around a nearby door. Bright green eyes widened at sight of the two strangers, then the little faunt wailed, “Mama!” before jumping into the hallway and fleeing around a corner.

Bilbo snorted. “Now that we've been spotted we should remain here.” He dropped his pack to lean upon a walking staff, awaiting his turn to wash feet in the basin beside the door. “No doubt half a dozen gammers will come in response to that wail.”

Sure enough, within minutes a scowling, grey haired lady appeared, trailing half a dozen wary little faunts, the “wailer” balanced on her hip. Frodo stepped forward, with a broad grin. “Hello, Aunty Del.”

Her scowl melted away at once. “Frodo Baggins! Bless me! I swear you've grown a good three inches since last I saw you.” She surveyed him from head to toe. “And a proper gentle-hobbit you look at last.”

Bilbo joined his nephew. “I finally managed to drag him to the tailor a couple of years ago. Good day to you Asphodel. How is Rufus? Do his joints still trouble him?”

“They do, and he makes sure everybody knows it. If you've a mind to speak with him, you'll probably find him snoring by some fire.” Asphodel bent to one of her taller charges. “Go tell Mistress Esmeralda that Mister and Master Baggins have arrived. She's in the big lambing barn.” The faunt ran off as fast as his little legs would carry him, slamming the door in his haste.

“You'll be thirsty no doubt. There's only us gammers and the little ones about, but there's warm drinks and a fire to be found with us in the nursery, if you don't mind the company.” Asphodel did not wait for a reply, merely turning with her entourage and leaving the Baggins' to follow … or not.

As they attached themselves to her train Bilbo leaned in to whisper to his nephew, “Asphodel hasn't changed, then.” Frodo giggled.

It was nearly an hour before a rather rumpled Esmeralda Brandybuck arrived in the nursery wing, and she paused for a moment to tuck a strand of damp hair beneath her kerchief and strip off a blood-stained pinafore. Concerned when she heard none of the usual shrieks and giggles within she opened the door and peeped in.

All of Brandy Hall’s newly ambulatory youngsters were seated upon the floor in a wide circle. About the fringes of this group stood several of the ladies tasked with caring for them and in the centre, Bilbo Baggins held court upon a low stool.

“ ‘You’re a booby,’ said William.  
‘Booby yerself!’ said Tom.”*

The children giggled.

“And so the argument began all over again, and went on hotter than ever, until at last they decided to sit on the sacks one by one and squash us, and boil us next time.”*

Bilbo’s tale enraptured even the elders, but it was Frodo that Esmeralda was most drawn to. His clothes were of the finest cut, if a little travel stained, but it was his face that truly struck her. The pinched and slightly closed look, that had haunted his features for so many years after his parent’s death, was gone. He was smiling softly, blue eyes sparkling with life, and the sight unpicked a little knot of concern within her heart.

“And Bert and Tom were stuck like rocks as they looked at me. And there they stand to this day, all alone, unless the birds perch on them; for trolls must be underground before dawn or they go back to the stuff of the mountains they are made of, and never move again.” Bilbo paused for dramatic effect, clapping his hands together for emphasis as he finished with, “And that is what happened to Bert and Tom and William.”*

Esmeralda stepped up to the circle. “And that is what happens to little faunts who do not wash their hands and faces before luncheon. Off you all go, now.” She made shooing motions and the little ones were shepherded away by their carers.

Bilbo jumped up, brushing some of the dust off his breeches. “Hello Esme. I’m afraid we’re a little earlier than anticipated. We met Tom Carter as we were approaching the ferry and he gave us a lift for the last mile.”

“So I see. If any of those faunts have nightmares about dwarves and trolls I shall send them to you.” Despite her declaration she was smiling. “You’d best follow me to the bathing rooms. You look the worse for travel and I look the worse for work. Sara won’t be home until dinner. We've promised the ox team to Applegarth Farm tomorrow so he’s pushing through the last of our ploughing.”

Some hours later Brandy Hall’s huge dining room was bursting at the seams and, after the quiet of Hobbiton, the many talking and laughing voices were almost an assault on Frodo’s ears. Some latecomers arrived, and one waved frantically. It was a moment before Frodo recognised his old playmate and conspirator, Folco Boffin. When he waved back Folco made a well-remembered hand signal and Frodo nodded emphatically.

“An accomplice of The Terror of Brandy Hall?” Bilbo murmured in his ear.

Frodo grinned. “He was co-conspirator on many a midnight raid in the kitchens. He always claimed that he was being led on by me, but he ate twice as much as I did. Would you mind if I disappeared after dinner? I would like to catch up with him.”

“Of course not, lad. I shall probably go and share a pipe or two with Old Rory.”

Frodo grinned. “I don’t know why you call him Old Rory. You’re older than he is.” Even as he finished the statement he frowned, for it occurred to him that this was indeed true, and yet Bilbo looked little older than Rory’s son, Saradoc.

Bilbo absently patted his breeches pocket, where a fine gold chain trailed from a secure fastening on his waistband. Apparently satisfied, he took a nonchalant sip of the very good wine they had been served with desert. “I’ve always said that adventures are good for a body,” he offered, with a faint smile.

-0-

“It was just as Ham Gamgee bent down to give Bell a kiss that his breeches all but exploded. I swear you could have heard them rip half way across the field!” Frodo’s grin was wide, his eyes sparkling. 

Folco hooted with laughter. “So that’s what really happened. By time the tale reached us here, he was prancing about the field in his altogether. Couldn’t imagine that in staid little Hobbiton.”

“Hey!” Frodo punched his companion playfully on the arm. “Hobbiton’s not staid. You should visit for the Harvest Reel one year. Hobbiton knows how to throw a party and it doesn’t have all the traditions of Brandy Hall tying it down. At Hobbiton’s parties I can dance with a lady or a dairy maid and nobody bats an eyelid.”

Folco handed over a recently assembled ham sandwich and started another for himself. They were sitting in Brandy Hall’s deserted main kitchen, the table before them scattered with left-overs from dinner. Frodo reopened his sandwich to spread it liberally with mustard.

“Do you miss the Hall?” Folco asked, snaring the mustard pot for his own sandwich.

Frodo chewed as he considered. “Sometimes. But … I don’t know how to describe it … I just feel at home in Bag End. You and I had lots of fun here, and Aunt Esme and Uncle Sara were very kind to me, but I never really felt that I fully belonged.”

“We did have fun, didn’t we?” Folco grinned. “You never sat still. We tagged along to see what you would get up to next.”

“That’s just it, though. I couldn’t sit still for too long, because when I did I started to remember my Mama and Papa, and that hurt too much.”

Folco set down his sandwich, his eyes widening. “Frodo … I never knew that. And I thought I knew all about you. I'm so sorry.”

Frodo shrugged. “I don’t think I knew it myself and we were both still young. The quiet of Bag End has forced me to re-examine my life.”

Folco took up his sandwich again. “I could scarce believe it when I saw you at table. Good job you didn’t arrive a week later. I’m only here for the calving.”

Frodo’s eyes widened. “You’re not fostered at the Hall any more either? I thought you had a couple more years at least. Have you gone home to Newbury then?”

“Papa struggles managing the farm nowadays. He's teaching Filby and me. Papa fell … broke both legs a couple of years ago. They never set properly. It makes walking or standing for long difficult. So, we’re learning how to look after the dairy herd.”

“Do you like it? I know you’ve always enjoyed being out of doors, but it must be a lot of responsibility for a couple of tweens.”

Folco gave a little laugh. “There's times I’d rather be getting into trouble and chasing lasses. It's not as though Papa did it on purpose. He still lets me have time to visit friends. He and Filby can manage the farm alone for a few days. Our calves are delivered. So I'm come to help with calving here and catch up with friends. Enough of me. What do you do with yourself, all alone with Mad Baggins?”

Frodo chuckled. “I have discovered that “Mad” Baggins is not nearly so mad as he’s painted. Either that, or I’m growing as mad as he is. He’s teaching me elvish. Did you know that elves have two main languages? In fact, I’ve even met elves. Can you believe that?”

Swallowing the last of his sandwich, Folco pursed his lips as he began to collect the dirty dishes. “Why go chatting with elves? There's whispers they’ve been seen in the Woody End … strolling through Shire lands without so much as a by-your-leave, Papa says. He says they think they own the place.”

For a reason not quite clear to him, Frodo found himself leaping to the defence. “Well, elves lived all over Middle-earth long before we did, you know. We’re the newcomers.”

“Papa says that’s just hearsay. Hobbits have lived in the Shire for generations. It's our land, given to us by some old king of the big folk. Not that there’s been sight of any king for many a year. Papa says it’s likely there is no king any more. This is hobbit land. Elves have no right to tramp over it without asking first,” Folco announced with some pique.

Frodo tried a different tack, a little surprised at the vehemence of his usually affable friend. “Have you been having any trouble on the borders lately? I know we used to get men tramping about sometimes.”

Frodo started washing dishes and Folco took up a towel to dry. “Last month there was a bit of a commotion. Some big folk came through the gap in the High Hay, down by the bridge. I didn’t see it myself. Stuff like that's been happening more frequently. Newbury folk lock their doors at night nowadays.”

“Then I can understand why you would be wary of any strangers.” Frodo handed over the last dish and went to empty the water from his bowl. “But, you know, elves are very different to men. Bilbo tells me they won’t even chop down trees to build a fire. I can’t imagine them doing any harm to our lands. They’re only passing through and the elves I met actually rescued Bilbo and me. We were being attacked by ruffians at the time.”

Folco sounded a little mollified. “Suppose that’s alright, but now there’s another tale you need to tell. I thought you weren’t getting into scrapes anymore. Now you drop a ruffian attack into the conversation … calm as you please.”

His companion chuckled. “Maybe that’s a tale for another day. I need to get some sleep. Tomorrow, Bilbo and I are walking over to Newbury to visit an old neighbour of ours.”

“From Hobbiton? Is that Mistress Mugwort, by any chance?” Folco began to put away the clean dishes and Frodo concentrated upon returning their left-overs to the pantry.

“Why, yes! Have you met her?”

“Seen her about. She's moved in with Bert and Larkspur Banks. A nice old gammer. Though she can sometimes be a bit … ” Folko put a finger to his temple and tapped. “Is everyone in Hobbiton a bit touched?”

Frodo grinned. “Does she seem happy to you?” he asked as he hung the tea towel to dry.

“I’ve not seen that much of her. Bert Banks is a capital chap. He always stands his round in the pub.” In Folco’s eyes there was no greater sin than a hobbit who ducked out of buying his round of drinks.

-0-

The next morning dawned blustery but dry, with fluffy clouds scudding across a pale blue sky. Esmeralda provided Frodo and Bilbo with a basket, crammed with cakes and pies, bread and all manner of vegetables, for no hobbit would consider arriving unannounced without food in his hands, and with the injunction not to try walking back after dark. “You should be perfectly safe in daylight, but Bounders are having trouble protecting the areas closer to the bridge. Sara sent some of our ponies over to Newbury so folk can reach any trouble faster, but don’t take any chances. I’m sure someone can put you up for the night if it’s too late to start back.” 

The walk to Newbury was uneventful and there were many other hobbits on the River Road, some of whom waved a greeting to Frodo, obviously remembering him from his years at the Hall. However, one or two scowled at a memory, and after one such encounter Bilbo noted, “You need to mend some bridges, Frodo, lad. I always think it’s wise not to let things fester.”

Frodo nodded, but perhaps that was something he would leave to another visit.

After five miles they cut across country from the main road, down a drover’s path. In the distance, across newly tilled fields, they could see the line of the High Hay and a ghostly smudge of the Old Forest beyond. It took but two hours more to reach the village of Newbury, which was little more than a couple of long, low farm houses, some tied cottages for the labourers and a small tavern. After their cold walk Frodo and Bilbo did not need to consult upon their first stop.

The tinkle of a bell over the door brought the landlord of The Three-Legged Pony from his kitchen. He smiled broadly. “Good day to ye, Gentlehobbits. Tom Barley’s my name and welcome to my establishment. What can I get for ye? We’ve a good strong cider to quench a thirst and I can mull it if ye've a mind to chase off the chill.”

“That sounds quite excellent. We’ll have two halves of your best mulled cider. Thank you,” Bilbo announced as he leaned against the dark polished wood of the bar and fished in his pocket for change. Master Barley filled two mugs from a keg then carried them to the hearth. Lifting a poker from the embers he plunged it into each mug in turn, releasing the rich smell of apples into the air.

Two tankards of steaming golden cider were placed upon the bar, a little ash floating on their surfaces. “That’ll be two farthings, sir.”

Bilbo slid one mug toward his nephew as he handed over the requested coin. “Business looks quiet,” he commented, nodding to the spotless but empty interior.

The rotund Tom waved a hand dismissively. “They’re all in field or barn. We don’t get much trade ‘till evenin’.” He ran a cloth over the already glowing bar top. “From yer accent yer not from ‘round here. If ye don’t mind me askin’ yer business, what brings ye to Newbury? We’re well off the beaten track fer visitors.”

Bilbo had been taking several sips of his cider and now smacked his lips in appreciation as he set down his tankard. “My name is Bilbo Baggins, and this is my nephew, Frodo. We’ve come to stay with family at the Hall and thought to visit an old neighbour of ours. She recently came to live in Newbury. Perhaps you know the Banks family?”

Tom grinned, revealing several chipped or missing teeth. “Half the village is called Banks. They’ve been labourers round these parts for as long as I care to recall. I think I know who yer talkin’ of though. ‘Tis Bert and Larkspur yer wantin’. They’ve an old aunty new come to live with 'em.”

“That will be them,” Bilbo confirmed. “Can you direct us to their cottage?”

“Aye … Clover. That’s the name. Nice old gammer. Dotes on them faunts.” He waved a strongly muscled arm toward the door. “Turn right as ye go out. There’s a row of cottages a few steps down the lane and Bert’s the one with the blue door. He’ll be in the fields but Larkspur and the faunts are about.” Tom looked hopefully at the pair. “Will ye be wantin’ lunch? I’ve some good thick beef stew and the missus floats a fine dumplin’, if ye’ve a mind for a bite.”

Frodo’s stomach gave a growl that drew a grin from both his elders and Bilbo fished in his pocket once more. “I think Frodo just settled that question. And we don’t wish to impose too deeply upon Mistress Bank’s hospitality. We’ll have two portions if you please.”

Tom turned for the kitchen then paused, frowning over his shoulder at the two. “Frodo? Now where’ve I heard that name afore?”

Bilbo raised a brow at his nephew and Frodo shook his head, announcing emphatically, “No bridges here, Bilbo. I promise.”

Tom’s face cleared as he clicked stumpy fingers. “Ahh! I know who ye be. Yon lad used to live at the Hall and ye’ll be Mad … er … well known too, Mister Baggins, sir.”

Mad Baggins chose to ignore the hesitation, smiling instead as he replied, “Yes. Frodo has been living with me in Hobbiton these seven years now, but it seems he is still remembered … fondly… in these parts.”

Tom displayed the gaps in his teeth again, green eyes twinkling. “Fondly is it? As I hear it, if there was mischief to be got into, he was in it. But there, t’was all innocent and no real harm done. No doubt yer all grown up and have put such things behind ye.”

“Yes, indeed!” Frodo hurried to assure their host. Tom disappeared into the kitchen and Frodo let loose his breath. 

The stew was as good as promised, with dumplings that melted in the mouth. As they were finishing Bilbo glanced out of the window at a greying sky. “It’s a long walk back to the Hall. I don’t suppose you have a room available for guests, Master Barley?”

Tom positively beamed. “Just Tom will do, sir. We don’t get many travellers here abouts but I do have one room. Tis not grand but there’s four beds and a fire and I doubt ye’ll have to share with strangers tonight. I can have it ready by the time ye’ve finished yer visitin’ and the missus is roastin a nice bit of pork for supper.”

“Then I thank you, Tom, and we would like to book the room for one night, along with supper for two.”

Tom almost bounced on the spot and Frodo surmised that the inn got little opportunity to put up guests. No doubt the few copper pennies Bilbo was asked to hand over for room and board would be a welcome bounty. He just hoped that the beds were not lumpy.

Their host almost fell over his sturdy feet in his haste to return to the kitchen. “I’ll tell the missus, right away.”

A few minutes later they had said their temporary goodbyes to Tom and were standing before a round blue door, set into a low, cob-walled, thatched cottage. It was Bilbo who knocked. At first they wondered if they had been heard, over the excited shrieks and giggles within, but eventually the door swung open to reveal a slightly dishevelled but widely smiling Clover Mugwort. Clutching at the corners of her apron hem, like a pair of tassels, were two little lasses with shining eyes and apple cheeks.

Clover’s smile grew even wider when she recognised Bilbo and Frodo. “Well, bless me! What brings you to Newbury, sirs?”

Frodo held out the basket. “Why you, Mistress Mugwort. We were just visiting family in Brandy Hall and thought we’d pop over for a visit.”

A younger lady, with dark, glossy curls and hazel eyes peered over Clover’s shoulder. “We weren’t expectin’ visitors but ye’re welcome as can be, sirs. Won’t ye come in out of the cold?”

Clover and the faunts stepped aside to admit their guests. Both gentlehobbits bowed as they crossed the threshold and Clover made introductions. “Mister Bilbo Baggins and Master Frodo Baggins, this is my niece, Larkspur Banks.” Larkspur offered a little curtsey and Clover tugged playfully at the dark curls of her wee companions. “And these are Candy and Mallow.” The faunts remembered their manners enough to bob wobbly curtsies, before running to their mama, who gathered in her chicks. Clover accepted the basket, setting it upon the broad kitchen table amongst some baking debris.

“Good day to you ladies,” Bilbo responded with a smile. “I hope we are not intruding too much upon your hospitality.”

It was clear they had caught the small family in the middle of baking biscuits. Larkspur turned at once to grab a damp cloth to wipe down the table, a faint blush colouring her cheeks. Her words tumbled out in a fluster. “Please excuse the mess, sirs. We weren’t expectin’ no visitors. Won’t ye sit down? Would ye like a cup of tea? Ye’ve come a long way. Would ye like a bite to eat? I’m afraid we've no parlour but yer welcome to a seat at table. Tis so good to see ye both. Clover has told me so much about ye.”

Bilbo waved a hand as he motioned Frodo into a chair. “Do not trouble yourself on our account, Mistress Banks. We were not expecting to be feted. Please carry on with your baking. Frodo and I will happily accept a cup of tea, but we have just had luncheon at the pub. Clover, why don’t you show me where to stow all this food. Esmeralda Brandybuck sends it with her kind regards.”

If Clover found the request a little strange she made no show of it, instead leading Bilbo through a small door. Once inside the surprisingly capacious pantry Bilbo left the unpacking to Clover, instead, leaning back against the closed door. “How are you, Clover? By the way, Bell sends her regards.”

Clover paused in her unpacking, turning to smile at Bilbo. “Do you know, Mister Baggins, I feel better now than I have since my Harry died. The little lasses is as bright as buttons and keep me on my toes, and Lark and Bert have given up their parlour, so I can have a room of my own. Tis all set up with bed and chair, and there’s even a lock if I’ve a mind to use it, which I haven’t.”

“Bell will be pleased to hear it. Esmeralda Brandybuck gave us a good report, but I wanted to make sure for myself before letting out Number Two again. How’s the memory nowadays?”

“Well … see, that’s the thing. Since I’ve been here my mind don’t seem so foggy as it was. Them little faunts has given me a new lease on life and I think I’m goin' to be very happy here.”

Bilbo grinned widely. “Then I am very happy for you.” Now he stepped in to help Clover empty the basket. “And I can feel easy about letting out Number Two to Daddy Twofoot.”

“Daddy Twofoot? What happened to make him want to leave his cottage? Nothin’ awful I hope.”

Bilbo sighed. “I'm afraid Heather died recently, and Dayton can't bear to stay on in the cottage alone. His son and his family will be moving in, if I can provide number two Bagshot Row for Dayton. But I wanted to be absolutely certain that you were settled here before moving in anyone else.”

“Well, thank you for the caring, Mister Bilbo. But I'm very settled here. You let out that place with my blessin’ and tell Daddy he can have anythin' of mine that's left there. If they don't suit him, you give ‘em away to any as needs it. Mayhap Fern and Wyd could make use of that old dresser of mine. They don't have much coin and they've a bairn to feed by now.”

“They have indeed. She’s called Anemone.”

“Is she, now? You must tell me all about the doin’s in Hobbiton since I left.”

Frodo and Bilbo spent a very enjoyable afternoon with the Banks family. Frodo gave the little girls piggy back rides and played “cats’ cradle”, and Bilbo related gentler sections of his old adventure, in between bringing Clover up to date on all the doings of her old neighbours. Tom Banks arrived in time for tea, which was a lavish affair, thanks to the generosity of Esmeralda Brandybuck. When the last morsel had been consumed and a pipe shared, Bilbo and Frodo returned to The Three Legged Pony in the gathering dusk.

Their room turned out to be small but clean and a cheerful fire danced in the grate. Two of the beds had been made up with crisp, white, sheets and good, thick, blankets and Frodo was pleased to pronounce the mattresses lump free. Supper was served in the general room, where the locals also made them feel most welcome, particularly when they discovered that young Frodo Baggins had a fair singing voice.

Bilbo declared dinner to be a veritable feast. There was a pork shoulder, roasted to perfection, creamy, mashed potatoes accompanied by honey roasted carrots and parsnips, the whole dressed in a golden gravy. A fine apple crumble, drowned in thick and shiny egg custard, topped off the excellent meal. The Baggins duo adjourned to their beds with full tummies and fell asleep almost instantly.

They were jolted awake some hours later by the sound of shouting beneath their window and the distant call of a horn. “Awake! Awake!”

 

 

*Words and paraphrases from JRR Tolkien’s “The Hobbit”.


End file.
